


Gendry Waters and the Magical Unmasked

by Mastodontosaurus



Series: A Wizard of Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Eventual Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, F/M, Gen, Gendry Waters-centric, POV Gendry Waters, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:40:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 114,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mastodontosaurus/pseuds/Mastodontosaurus
Summary: Gendry Waters is just a boy. A boy with dark dreams, perhaps, but just a boy. Until a mysterious wizard comes knocking and he is introduced to the magical world of Westeros. Enrolled as a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Gendry learns to cast spells and fly. But just as the magical world lies hidden behind the muggle world, a darkness lurks in Westeros.Gendry Waters is a wizard.
Relationships: Arya Stark & Gendry Waters, Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Brotherhood Without Banners & Gendry Waters, Hot Pie & Gendry Waters, Lommy Greenhands & Hot Pie
Series: A Wizard of Westeros [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1964614
Comments: 99
Kudos: 60





	1. The Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hand investigates a tip and makes an evening visit.

If there was one thing Jon Arryn hated, it was surprises. It didn’t matter if some student was trying to show off some new charm they thought they’d mastered. It didn’t matter if it was some wondrous development that was going to help win victory during the war. It still didn’t matter if it was a former student with a “tip” regarding Jon’s investigation of the prophecy.

To be fair, Waymar Royce had been an adequate charms student back at Hogwarts. A Slytherin. A half-blood, though he had wisely kept that quiet. Hardworking, to be sure, though his charms work was never inspired, nor was he particularly skillful in other areas of magic. A bit of a tosser as a student. He was just a bit braver than he’d have others believe. And now he was dead.

Jon grimaced at Royce’s owl. Given that her master was now dead, she didn’t have anywhere to go, having delivered Royce’s final message. So there she sat, giving him a baleful look. He unfurled the parchment again, knowing the information would not have changed in the several seconds since he last read it. It simply read:

_Tobho and Elinor Mott,_

_4b Steel Street_

_Flea Bottom, London_

For the last several years, Jon had had neither the time, nor the inclination, to go traipsing around the muggle world. But even he knew the neighborhood in question. Flea Bottom.

Flea Bottom was a place that cropped up in Hogwart’s coursework in History of Magic every so often. Usually because Maegor’s Alley, Knockturn Alley’s seedier, scarier cousin, had several access points in the muggle world’s Flea Bottom. And if one of Waymar Royce’s last acts was to send this address to him before promptly dying, well…

Jon sighed. Turning on his heel, he left his office with a sharp popping noise. Royce’s owl was left on a perch with neither a new destination nor a treat in thanks.

* * *

During the day’s rush hour, Flea Bottom had a sort of grungy appeal. It bustled, in a rough sort of way. Jon had little doubt that that appeal routinely evaporated whenever rush hour wasn’t in full swing and one no doubt had to watch their back, particularly when passing one of the many twisting alleys. The access points to Maegor’s Alley lurked in a couple of the nearby shadows. Even for the non-magical, Jon knew this area had a reputation for possessing both a tight-knit pride and a cut-throat attitude designed for scraping by.

He grimaced, not for the first time. He was getting strange looks again. Sure, he owned muggle clothes. Normal trousers, with a normal buttoned shirt and a normal coat. But while the trousers might still fit, he knew neither the shirt nor the jacket would these days. It seemed Robert wasn’t the only one who had let himself get fat, although Jon had several decades’ additional excuse on Robert. He could magically alter them, he supposed, but he’d already been noticed for his flowing robes, and no one had truly seemed bothered.

That, and he’d accidentally bumped into a younger man who had promptly excused himself.

“Pardon me, Father.” He’d said.

While Jon was, indeed, a father, the muggle couldn’t have known that. Which meant Jon had been identified as a member of the clergy, as a ‘Father.’ Wearing the black robes seemed to have bought him some leeway as far as how muggles perceived him.

He turned this corner. And crossed that street. He rounded a corner and passed by a series of businesses on the ground floors, stacked with residential flats atop them. There, just ahead, was number 4 Steel Street. The lights were on in the flat above. Inside, he knocked on the door and listened to the approaching footsteps, the sliding of rudimentary locks.

The door opened and Jon had to adjust his gaze downward to meet a pair of bright blue eyes under a mess of jet black hair.

“Can I help you?” The boy asked.

“My name is Jon Arryn. Are Tobho or Elinor Mott in?” Jon inwardly shook himself. The kid looked to be around the right age. Only around ten years old, a bit gangly, but with a definite promise to shoot up and eventually fill out into a strong, tall build. A familiar one, at that.

“Who’s at the door?” An older man’s voice called from inside.

“Some priest called Jon!” The boy called back.

“What can I do for you?” The aging man asked, arriving at the door. “We’ve already had the proselytizers come by last week, if that’s what you’re after.”

Jon had no idea what he was supposed to be proselytizing. Then again, he supposed it had to do with some muggle branch of religion.

“I’m here on official business,” Jon began, though he internally cringed at how pompous it probably sounded. Perhaps he should have taken the time to plan out just what he would say. “It’s of a somewhat sensitive nature. May I come in?”

The muggle hesitated, giving him an assessing look, but stood back, allowing Jon to enter.

The flat was well-kept. Clean, and orderly. It was far larger than the typical flat for this area, which reaffirmed what Jon had found out about the Motts. They lived within their means, but their means were more than many in this neighborhood. They wisely kept a low profile on that front. A kettle whistled from the kitchen and the woman in the kitchen, probably Elinor, made up a pot of tea and gestured for Jon to sit down.

“Mr. and Mrs. Mott,” Jon began again. “My name is Jon Arryn. I work with the government.”

“So you’re not a priest.” Mott answered back, sending another look to Jon’s attire.

“No, I am not.” Jon paused. He wasn’t entirely sure how to broach this subject. Instead, he turned to the boy, who was curiously examining Jon’s robes anew.

“What’s your name?”

“Gendry, sir.” Of course. She would have wanted to give the boy a fitting name.

“What do you know about your parents, Gendry?”

“Just who are you?” Tobho Mott cut in. “What is it you want?”

“I ask, because I’ve been tasked with a birth search.” At least, Jon was fairly certain the term ‘birth search’ was the correct one. And it wasn’t exactly a lie.

“Did someone send you to find me?” Gendry piped up. “My mum’s dead, so did my dad send you?” There was some excitement in his demeanor, but fear lurked there. “Is someone trying to find me?”

“What do you know of your father?” Jon asked. He’d have to tread more carefully than he’d thought. The boy shrugged.

“I never knew him. But, if you’re doing a birth search, that means some parent thinks their kid is out there somewhere, right?” Perhaps it was time to redirect the conversation.

“Tell me,” Jon glanced around at the boy and the boy’s aging caretakers. “Has anything strange ever happened around you? Anything unusual, or unexplained?”

“Like what?” Mrs. Mott asked, suspicion lurking in her face.

“It could be anything, really,” Jon answered. He thought back to the stories of some of his students from years past. “Like, if you’ve ever had a supposedly hopeless incident right itself in an impossible manner. Perhaps you fell from a great height, but bounced and were uninjured. Or maybe you were able to make an object do something it’s not supposed to do.” The room remained quiet for just a moment.

“What about the car?” Gendry asked Mr. Mott. But neither of the adults wanted to entertain his question just then.

“Why do you ask?”

“I ask, because if there have been strange occurrences, it could prove something. Please, what about this car?”

“I was helping Tobho change the oil of a car,” the boy, Gendry started. “We’ve got a garage a couple blocks away. It was also getting a new set of tires, so it was up on cinder blocks. Anyway, I was under the car, putting the pan in place to catch all the old oil, when the cinder blocks broke and gave way. I should have been killed. I swear I felt the car fall on me, and I had dirt on me from the underside of the bumper where it should have crushed me. But the next thing I know, I’m sitting on top of the hood.”

“You’re probably just not remembering it as it happened. I’ve told you a hundred times not to treat the garage like a playground.” Mott shot back at the boy, but it was obvious he believed the boy’s story.

“Have moments like these happened often?” Jon asked. The muggles and the boy shrugged.

“Often enough, I suppose.” Tobho Mott sighed. “His teachers can’t figure out whether he’s got some kind of cursed luck, or whether he’s doing things on purpose.”

“What does stuff like that prove?” The boy asked.

“It proves that you will soon receive a letter,” Jon told them. “It might be an unusual letter. But I implore you to open it and read it.” He finished his tea. “I’m sure you would prefer if I weren’t so cryptic, but there’s a certain process that must be followed.”

After taking leave from the Mott residence, Jon took a moment to ponder. None of this boded well. Things were in motion, and Jon couldn’t quite figure out whether it was the prophecy’s natural course, or if someone was prodding things from the shadows. But, if he’d learned anything over the last century, it was to take preemptive measures wherever possible. He sighed. He would need to make several appointments.

Checking his watch, he realized it was probably as good a day as any. He would wait until after the man’s staff had left. Turning down an alley and side-stepping some bins, he turned on his heel and disapparated with another sharp pop.

* * *

That evening, Jon notified the muggle Prime Minister’s painting of his arrival and had him check that the coast was clear. Jon arrived in the office in time to observe Terrence Buckland sat at his desk, kneading his forehead.

“Long day, Minister?” Jon asked by way of a greeting.

“You have no idea.” Buckland sighed. “I’ve been trying to deal with piecing together bits of these sodding trade agreements ever since I first came into office. Just when I think I’ve gotten somewhere, some new tosser springs a new angle and throws it all down the drain. If we’re not careful, a hard border will be inevitable...” He looked up. “Sorry, I guess these are all … _muggle_ affairs, as you’d say. What new bombshell do you have for me, today?”

Jon supposed the muggle had taken the news of an entire hidden world of magic well, all things considered. He’d only been in office for a few months so far, and it had been Jon’s responsibility to sketch out the muggle PM’s basic understanding of the magical world as it pertained to the muggle one.

“I don’t normally inform the muggle Prime Minister of this next bit until a bit later, given the shock all of this usually induces, but you’ve got an even keel,” Jon opened, trying to cover his hesitancy. “And, I believe a time may come when you’ll need certain insights in order to keep a steady hand.”

Buckland sat up straighter.

“A steady hand for what?”

“That is unclear at this point,” Jon said simply. Judging by the way Buckland grabbed up a pen and began fiddling with the clip on it, Jon’s answer had been suitably cryptic. He seemed to be on a roll, of sorts, today.

“I had been under the impression that these briefings were supposed to be handled by the Minister of Magic. Are you ever going to tell me why you, the _Hand_ ,” he emphasized the slang term for the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, “a glorified copper, has been filling in for a man I’ve only met once?” Jon inwardly winced. Buckland hadn’t made it to the highest office in the UK without a great deal of political maneuvering and instincts, and it was clear Jon would need to saddle the PM with some honesty, especially considering these were responsibilities that Robert consistently shirked. Buckland clearly knew he was in for another lecture, and was squeezing for some additional intelligence to make it worth his while.

“Do you remember my last visit, when I referenced Robert’s Rebellion?” The muggle man nodded.

“He’s the same Robert who became the current minister, yes?” Jon nodded back, and Buckland chuffed. “And here I was, thinking he was an idiot, based on the five minutes we interacted when you two introduced yourselves. Turns out, he swept the field.” Jon didn’t know quite how to respond to that, so he plowed on.

“I never told you how the rebellion came about. The rebellion had some impacts on the muggle world, ones you’ll likely remember.” Jon gave a pause, and Buckland patiently waited for him to continue.

“First, I need to explain why there was a rebellion at all. Like the muggle world, we had our own monarchy. Unlike the muggle world, our monarchy was not a constitutional one, but something closer to an absolute monarchy.”

“What do you mean by ‘something closer’ to an absolute monarchy?” Buckland jumped in.

“I mean, traditionally, they had the theoretical control over everything in the magical UK, although there were exceptions. The royal family were the Targaryens. For the past four hundred years or so, they typically had a more hands-off approach. Some institutions, such as Hogwarts, which is the name of the country’s oldest magical school for young witches and wizards, predate the Targaryen dynasty. Therefore, Hogwarts, among other groups, has always functioned independently from Targaryen rule.

“Similarly, the throne had theoretical rule over all magical people in the British Isles. However, the traditional standard was one where the king was considered to be a ‘king among equals.’ Meaning the Targaryens were supposed to be equal to those of pure blood. The pure-blooded were supposed to be stewards of lesser-blooded magical folk, and the Targaryens were meant to be stewards to everyone, pure-blood and otherwise.”

Buckland assumed an expression of caution. He likely had an idea of where this was heading, given the topic of lineage had been brought up.

“It was a tenuous relationship, given that the Targaryens conquered the magical kingdom only seven hundred years ago. All but a few of the pure-blood families predate the Targaryens. It’s why Aegon the Conqueror had to make certain concessions after the isles were subjugated. There were some families who continued to hold out against the Targaryen invasion, even knowing he had dragons. Even Aegon the Conqueror knew the dynasty would be a short one if he started his rule by wiping out the oldest of the old families after they’d bent the knee.”

“Seven hundred years?” Buckland repeated. “That’d be sometime in the 12 or maybe the 1300s.” He seemed to be mulling things over. “What predated the Targaryens?”

“Regional kings,” Jon tried to acquiesce to his curiosity and not to be dismissive at the detour. “Gardener Kings in one region, Lannister Kings in another. Old pureblood families that protected magical folk from muggles and protected muggles from magical folk. Magical folk largely ruled over themselves by region. The pure-blooded families took responsibility over muggle-borns and taught them to avoid witch hunts and the like.

“What’s important is that the Targaryens conquered the British Isles and decided to consolidate power by disentangling the two worlds, to definitively close off our two worlds. It took time, but eventually, the magical world was largely concealed from the non-magical one.”

Jon sighed. Things would get sticky from here on.

“Once the two worlds were separated, the magical community’s … neurotic tendencies started to take root. Pure-blood families – well, there’s truly no such thing, really. We’d have died out if we hadn’t been marrying muggles all this time. But the families with more witches and wizards wanted more clout with the throne. And the Targaryens themselves brought their own ideas of blood purity, quite similar to muggle monarchies.”

Buckland was trying to rub away a pinched expression, but Jon continued.

“The Targaryens married, whenever possible, only other Targaryens. They didn’t rule nearly as long as your royal family, but I imagine the Targaryens might have caught up to them in terms of inbreeding. Their family tree looks quite like a plank, rather than a tree.”

“So, how does this lead to the rebellion?” Buckland did not seem amused with Jon’s brief attempt at levity. He’d never been good at it.

“There came to be a saying. Every time a Targaryen is born, a galleon – I’m sorry – a _coin_ is flipped, and the world holds its breath to see on which side it lands. There were a fair number of steady rulers, but a sizeable number of destructive ones. Madness came to be associated with Targaryens. Some were quite turbulent, some were little more than squibs – someone who is born to magical parents, but doesn’t have much magic in them. Some meant well, but became obsessed with inane subjects or pointless quests. And then there was Aerys.” Jon paused.

“Suffice it to say that King Aerys started out alright in his youth. I used to be a teacher at Hogwarts, you see, and I taught him myself, when I was a young teacher.” Jon paused, picking out his next words.

“He was a prince. He knew it. The other students knew it. He was a little arrogant, but never cruel. He was about as expected, for a crown prince.”

“But then?” Buckland asked. Jon shook himself out of his memories of a white-haired prince gallivanting around the castle grounds.

“Then, nothing, for a while. He left Hogwarts. He did what was expected of him and he married his sister, Princess Rhaella, and they eventually ascended to the throne. There were rumors that his galleon had landed on the wrong side and he grew increasingly paranoid, increasingly obsessed with blood purity and increasingly hateful of muggles and muggleborns. But that was over the course of years and my focus was on teaching.” He ignored the muggle’s discomfort at casual references to incest and hatred towards non-magic people.

“I was still there teaching, when his son, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, arrived at Hogwarts. He was quite popular. He was handsome. Musical. Gifted in charms. Surely, even if his father was going mad, we would have a good ruler in Rhaegar.” He saw Buckland was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so he continued.

“Rhaegar also left Hogwarts and married – he had no sister mind you, so he married a Martell. But before he graduated, he learned of an ancient prophecy. It’s taught at Hogwarts as part of their ancient magical history unit. The prophecy tells of Azor Ahai reborn, a child that would be born and go on to do great things. Azor Ahai would deliver us from darkness and serve as a hero. I won’t tire you with the details, Minister. Prophecies are dangerous.

“Rhaegar had always had a one-track mind when he took something to heart, and he took this prophecy as gospel. At one point he believed, as did some others, that he himself was Azor Ahai reborn.

“As the years went by, he became obsessed and decided that he was destined to father the promised hero. But due to a blood curse, his wife was unable to have more children and he did not see the children they already had together as candidates for the prophecy.

“Rhaegar had always thrown his entire self into whatever he set his mind to. This promised child would be his; he only needed to find the mother. He eventually met and became convinced she would be a girl named Lyanna Stark. She had recently turned fifteen when Rhaegar abducted her.”

Terrence Buckland was seemingly attempting to rub his eyes out of his head. Giving up, he looked over to Jon and asked:

“I thought you said he had a wife and children.”

“He did. Elia, his wife, had a blood curse – an affliction that made her health very delicate. She had somehow survived two pregnancies. Further pregnancies would have been quite dangerous for her. We’ll never know exactly what ran through his mind, but many hypothesize that he wanted to spare his wife another pregnancy. It was well known he loved her. But he also wanted to fulfill the prophecy. Hence, he needed Lyanna.”

“He loved his wife so he took a teenager?”

“It’s -” Jon sighed. He didn’t want to get waylaid, but knew that muggles often struggled to wrap their heads around Targaryen practices. Even wizarding folk who had supported the Targaryens had refrained from commenting on their familial practices towards the end. Jon certainly didn’t want to get into the history of Targaryen practices of taking more than one wife.

“It’s,” he tried again. “It’s a specific mindset. The Targaryens had their own subculture, if you will. Rhaegar, by all accounts, did love his wife. And their children. But his coin fell on the slightly mad side, too, I reckon. He had a one-track mind. He wasn’t mad like Aerys. He wasn’t cruel or violent. But he needed to fulfill the prophecy, no matter the cost. It just so happened that the cost was quite high.”

“Does this story get much worse?” The man was cringing, now.

“It does.” Jon took pity on the man and conjured a pot of tea. He tapped it with his wand and it immediately started steaming. After pouring it out and handing a bracing cup to the weary man, he started up again.

“Lyanna Stark was the only daughter of the Stark family. The Starks, as it happens, are one of the oldest recorded wizarding families in Westeros - what you call the British Isles. It was Torrhen Stark who knelt before Aegon the Conqueror and then used that as leverage for concessions from the throne.

“Lyanna’s oldest brother, Brandon, and several of his friends, went before King Aerys, known by then as the Dragon Lord. He demanded that he bring Lyanna back to them and punish Prince Rhaegar.

“I believe one of his specific demands included that Prince Rhaegar come out and die. King Aerys had been descending into paranoia for years at this point. One didn’t _demand_ anything of the Dragon Lord. He had Brandon arrested and he called Rickard Stark, their father, and the parents of Brandon’s friends, to come to court.

“When the parents of the boys arrived, he had them publicly executed for treason. Rickard Stark demanded a trial by duel. The king determined that Rickard Stark would need to defend his charges of treason by dueling cursed fire, but without his wand. He put Brandon Stark in a cage of devil’s snare – a magical plant that constricts you if you move – and placed Brandon’s wand just beyond reach. You can guess what happened next. Rickard Stark was burnt alive while his son strangled trying to save him.”

There was a quiet moment during which Jon refilled the minister’s cup.

“I mentioned I taught at Hogwarts. We received word of what had happened, of course; it was all over the news. The radio, in the papers. There was a royal decree that House Stark be formally charged as traitors to the Dragon Lord and the magical world at large. The next eldest Stark child, Eddard, was my student. He had come of age and was completing his final few weeks at Hogwarts.

“As his head of house, I received a formal summons from the Dragon Lord, demanding that I bring both Eddard and the youngest Stark child, Benjen, before the royal court to be tried for treason. Mind you, Benjen was still only fourteen when his sister was abducted and oldest brother killed.”

Jon sighed.

“There was no way I was about to march students to their deaths. So I took Eddard – everyone called him ‘Ned,’ and Benjen, and I took them home, where their ancestral home’s protective charms could keep them safe.”

“Erm,” Buckland broke in. “Is there going to be a reason why this war is called ‘Robert’s Rebellion?’ It just sounds like it should be named after a Stark, or you.”

Jon topped off the minister’s cup.

“Robert’s Rebellion is so named after Robert Baratheon. He was Ned Stark’s best friend at Hogwarts, and Lyanna Stark’s boyfriend. The Dragon Lord followed up his original decree by including Robert Baratheon among those charged with treason. It was a shame, really. Aerys had been inseparable from Robert’s father, Steffon, while they were at school together.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. Robert was never the type to sit still.” He carefully ignored the minister’s face, which undoubtedly showed confusion over that statement and the minister’s memory of the man who had grown to be obese.

“When I took the Stark boys home, it was a clear case of disobedience to the crown, and suddenly everyone had to pick sides. I’m an Arryn, and my family has always held sway over certain other families. The Starks were once kings in their own right prior to the Targaryens and the Stark name has always had staunch loyalty from several pure-blood families. Ned Stark had been dating a Tully girl, and the two families had grown close, so her family leveraged more support. Similarly, the Baratheons are descendants of the Storm Kings, and held influence. Robert left school so he could rally more to our side. That’s why the crown called for Robert’s death, along with the Starks and myself.”

“In answer to your question, the reason the war is called Robert’s Rebellion is because he declared Rhaegar to be a perverted kidnapper, and that he would rescue his love. He was the one who defeated Prince Rhaegar. He later defeated the Dragon Lord, Aerys Targaryen, in battle. He’s the one who became the youngest Minister for Magic ever, and the first Minister to be elected, rather than picked by the crown.”

“Given that Robert Baratheon is the Minister of Magic now, I take it the Targaryens were all overthrown?” Terrence Buckland asked. Jon sighed.

“King Aerys and Prince Rhaegar were both defeated, it’s true. Elia, Rhaegar’s wife, and their two children were also killed. King Aerys’s younger children survived, and have been raised abroad in Europe. To answer your question, the Targaryen reign is over, and the rebellion fully abolished the monarchy altogether, leaving only the Ministry of Magic.”

They sat in contemplative silence, and Jon tapped the teapot again to refill it with more steaming tea. Terrence Buckland narrowed his eyes at that.

“You mentioned that you normally don’t like to tell us muggle PMs about this so soon. Why are you telling me all of this now? Why tonight?”

He supposed there was no use in dragging it out.

“There’s a prophecy. A different one than the prophecy of Azor Ahai. We call it the Frogg Prophecy, after the seer who gave it. It came soon after Roberts’s Rebellion ended. In short, it tells of a child destined to defeat the Dragon Lord.”

“But Robert Baratheon defeated the Dragon Lord, didn’t he?”

“Ye-es,” Jon dragged out the word. How to explain this …

“What does that mean? Why did you make that sound like a question?”

“There were many witnesses, myself included, who saw Robert do battle with, and defeat, the Dragon Lord. We saw the Dragon Lord’s body be destroyed.” He lingered for a moment.

“So then how can a child defeat someone who’s been destroyed?”

“Because the Dragon Lord was obsessed with trying to become stronger. More invincible. Like a true dragon. He was looking into dark magic that would help him cheat death.”

“So you’re here tonight as what – a warning that he’s resurrected? That he’s back?”

“There’s no evidence he’s back. But the prophecy has started to receive more attention of late. Wyverns – old loyalist followers of the Dragon Lord – have started to become more active. That’s why I have come tonight. Robert’s Rebellion lasted about a year. Nearly four hundred muggles died when the war spilled over into your world. That’s why there was a rash of gas explosions, car collisions, freak storms, and that plane crash that year, I’m sure you remember.” The PM nodded, his eyes wide.

“That’s why I’m here tonight, Minister. Robert’s Rebellion was caused by a single man obsessed with a prophecy. Today, there are many people with different motives who are chasing this new one.”

“What sort of motives?” Jon hesitated for a moment. He had already alluded to it, but saying it frankly was something else.

“The subjugation of the muggle world to the magical world, is one example.”

To the PM’s credit, he stayed rather composed.

“Are you serious?”

Jon nodded.

“Is there any particular reason why?”

So Jon launched into a lecture on the history of witch hunts and how they had yielded only a fraction of actual witches burnt, but had fueled the messaging for centuries that muggles are dangerous and hateful. In particular, the Faith Militant and it’s efforts to wipe out magical folk, however vain, nonetheless provided the perfect example of muggle intent. If given the chance, the church would steal and pervert any magical object they could get their hands on, and destroy the magical folk who possessed it before them. Recruitment to the wyvern cause almost always involved invoking the deeds of the Faith Militant.

“This history is just one of the justifications that underpin the movement. Blood purity is still a valued part of society in many circles. Muggleborns and, to some extent, half-bloods, are seen as lesser than those of purer blood. Scapegoating muggleborns therefore necessitates a certain disdain towards muggles. Suffice it to say, there are many reasons whether societal, political, economical, that feed into the sentiment.”

Jon leaned forward.

“Part of the reason why I’m telling you this is because the wizarding world is neither simple nor uniform when it comes to the opinions of the segregation of our worlds and blood status. There will be those who will wish to stoke fear in both worlds. There are those who would be eager to stir up trouble in the muggle world. If you see an uptick of unexplained occurrences, odd natural disasters or anything that seems off-kilter; tell your concerns to the painting. We will look into it.”

“How likely is any of this to happen?” Buckland’s tea was well and truly forgotten. His fingers worried at the pen in his hands and he couldn’t seem to find a comfortable sitting position.

“The current administration is dedicated to maintaining our world’s secrecy from yours. We have quite a bit of experience in modifying the memories of muggles who encounter magic.” He stood.

“I know I’ve painted a grim picture for you tonight, but try not to worry unduly. I tell you all of this to arm you with knowledge should the worst come to pass. It’s born from force of habit more than true evidence.”

* * *

Jon thought his meeting with the Prime Minister had gone as well as could be expected. He thought he had managed to downplay the likelihood of the domination of the PM's entire world rather well.

Now, there was the matter of this prophecy. He had found two candidates thus far. Jon worried at the circumstances of Waymar Royce’s death. Royce didn’t exactly go around making friends, but neither was there a ready answer for his death that was separate from the prophecy. Jon focused on the fact that the child in question was still a mystery, so the Wyverns would have to move carefully, and secretly, for the time being.

He was exhausted. He was truly feeling his age, and all he wanted now was to curl up in bed and sleep for an age.

Jon did not see that the lights in the house were off as he climbed the steps to the front door, because his eyes were squeezed shut from a yawn that overtook him. He vaguely noticed an owl soaring towards him, but she carried no letter.

It was Waymar Royce’s sodding owl, flitting towards him. He did a double take to watch her when he heard her give a cry in warning. He turned his head to squint at her in the darkness. With his head turned, Jon didn’t notice that Lysa never said a word as she met him at the front door.

Jon saw a flash of green in the periphery of his vision. Waymar Royce’s owl wheeled away into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long note here – I promise it won’t be like this every time.  
> I would normally like to have a near-complete story before I even think of posting the first chapter. Given the dumpster fire that is 2020, though, I figure I’ll cut myself some slack and just start posting. It’s partly so I can keep my real world life accountable, and largely because I want some escapism.  
> My goal is to have the vast majority of this work cover Gendry as the main protagonist, much like the Harry Potter series, which only occasionally focused on Voldemort’s meetings, the muggle PM, and that muggle dude who’s name I can’t recall, etc. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep it up. I may have to add in other points of view to make things work, but it’s a good challenge for me for now.  
> Also, heads up: I’ve altered people’s ages, so Gendry is only one year older than Arya, and is the same age as several other characters. Therefore, Arya shows up during Gendry’s second year. I originally planned on keeping a wider age gap, and maybe starting the story in Gendry’s second or third year at Hogwarts, but I realized I couldn’t make that happen without devoting the first several chapters to shameless, clunky information dumps. As it is, the first chapters still include giant information dumps loosely disguised as dialogue – I did try to break it up with some tea drinking. That’s why I figured I may as well just write his first two years at Hogwarts as a normal story. To be fair, it will probably be short and it isn’t like you have to wade through a whole novel just to meet Arya.  
> Since the Harry Potter universe is a lot less sexist than Game of Thrones, certain characters will have toned down character traits.  
> For example: Catelyn has far less reason to be so threatened by Jon’s existence, since inheritance is typically split equally between children regardless of age or sex. Also, she and Ned had an established relationship while at Hogwarts, so he felt comfortable telling her about Jon. Cersei has far less reason to hate other women because she has not been held back from working or doing things due to her being female. Joffrey is still spoiled and the worst. Ramsey is still a psychopath.  
> Arya has not been berated for acting unladylike her whole life. I’m imagining Arya’s upbringing to still have friction with Sansa, because she’s been called Horseface and ugly by Sansa and a couple of bratty Wintertown girls, but it’s a lot less toxic. This is especially because Sansa hasn’t been under pressure her whole life to be a ‘perfect’ lady. She was still dainty growing up, but she doesn’t live under the reality that her whole life could be ruined by an undesirable match. I imagine that they fight a lot, but they know they love each other.  
> Unlike Harry Potter, Gendry has grown up with memories/a vague sense that his mother loved him, and with foster families, namely the Motts. The Motts made sure to show him they loved him. He still has tons of baggage, but he hasn’t crawled out of a Flea Bottom pit only to be sold as a teenager to the Night’s Watch for a life of chilly celibacy. Talk about a raw deal.  
> I will largely use American English in this story. I do use British English on occasion, such as trousers instead of pants, when it feels natural for me to do so. Otherwise, I’ll say people are getting in line instead of a queue. Especially when counting floors: I don’t expect it to, but in case it comes up, the ground floor will be called either the ground floor or the first (1st) floor. The next floor up will be the second (2nd) floor, and so on, the way floors are counted in the US. Also, if someone steps onto a sidewalk, it will be written as stepping onto the curb rather than the kerb. Similarly, people fill their car with gas rather than petrol.  
> The setting is the UK, but blended with a magical Westeros. Here’s how I think of the setting – if it’s a Westerosi place, it’s in the magical side of the UK. If it’s an Essosi place, it’s probably in Europe. The North, the Stormlands, Winterfell, Highgarden or any other place, is going to be a magical place that has been warded off from the muggle world.  
> When the magical world sealed itself off, they essentially created a network of non-magical zones for muggles to live in. Think of it like national parks, where portions of land were carved out for muggles and laws have been put in place to protect them from magical people messing with their lives. Areas of crossover still exist, with London being a case in point. They didn’t want to move their central business district and government headquarters, so they just hid it.


	2. Dreams and Visitations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Flea Bottom boy receives a series of visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured I would post this today, since Gendry was barely in the first chapter. As far as a posting schedule, I am aiming for once per week, but things are in flux so we’ll see.  
> Trigger warning: There’s a sequence that depicts a torture scene. I think it’s on par with or maybe slightly more gratuitous than Harry Potter, but way less graphic than Game of Thrones. I’ve updated the tags and upped the rating just in case. If you’ve read/watched Harry Potter, this should probably be fine. If you’ve read/watched Thrones, you’ve definitely seen worse.

_The light from the living room glared at him, but Gendry found he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure how he had stuffed himself into the cupboard under the sink without causing a racket with the basket of detergent bottles, but he found he could just fit._

_Gendry squeezed his eyes shut to attempt some relief from the living room’s bare light bulb. How had the light’s shade fallen? The entire living room was a mess. Opening his eyes and peaking out from behind the cupboard door, he saw several robed figures surrounding the woman on the floor._

_He had always loved his mother’s long, golden hair. It splayed out across the carpet and created ripples as she writhed on the floor._

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

Gendry bolted upright, heaving shuddering breaths. He tried to slow his breathing, but he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. Exhaling all the way, he forced himself to hold it for a couple of seconds before breathing in as slowly as he could. After a few shaky counts, he flopped back down, where he noticed his pillow was damp with tears. Or maybe sweat. It was a warm August night, and he’d left the window open for the breeze, but he still felt hot.

The nightmare was a recurring one.

He supposed he was lucky that he’d woken up when he did. Gendry could never make much sense of things when the dream progressed beyond that point, and he’d be useless the following day. Tobho would inevitably kick him out of the shop, saying he was too distracted to work safely, and send him to the back lot with the decrepit cars or else to the back room where the old tires were kept. Elinor would try to get him to talk about it; articulate what he had seen and heard.

Gendry swiped at his face and hauled himself up again. It was no use sleeping now. It might just start the dream all over again.

He crossed to his desk and flicked on the lamp where he kept extra paper and pencils. Maybe tonight would be the night. The pencil swept over the page in swooping arcs. He shaded in one bit and erased another. He paused while he tried to picture her face.

After several moments of hesitation, he scrapped the page and crumpled it, angrily stuffing it into the waste bin. He could always draw his mother’s hair. At least, he was pretty sure it was his mother. He could remember her face, she was his mum, he just _knew_ it. But he had yet to be able to recreate even a semblance of her face on paper. He was no artist, but surely he could accomplish even a basic sketch? Even a bad one would do.

He jumped at the noise of clattering metal. Looking down, Gendry realized he had kicked the bin, sending it rolling away and spilling discarded attempts at drawing her.

Gendry felt he was running out of time. He had last seen his mum when he was five. He was ten years old now. His eleventh birthday would be soon. Soon, it would be more than half of his life since he had seen her. If he couldn’t picture her face well enough to draw now, what would prevent her from fading in the future?

There came a soft knock at the door and it opened.

“Gendry?” It was Elinor.

Elinor examined the scene before her. It was almost two in the morning. The bed was rumpled, and the kicked bin had scattered the balled up papers. Gendry, with his pencil still clenched in his fist, stood guiltily in the middle of it all. She had the grace not to address what she saw.

“Can I get you anything?” Elinor’s favorite response to Gendry’s dreams had been to give him warm milk. Recently, however, they had become more frequent, and she had started trying chamomile tea.

“No thank you,” Gendry said. “I’m fine.”

They had a brief standoff, each waiting to see if the other would break. Elinor broke first with a sigh, and said:

“Just let me know if you change your mind,” before closing the door again.

Gendry sank back into bed.

This had to be because of that man, the false septon, Jon Arryn. His mum’s dream used to come to him every two or maybe three weeks. It was a little over a week since Arryn’s visit, he’d had it almost every night.

Tobho had started breaking his self-imposed rule of never cursing at home. He would normally reserve any foul language for the shop, if he ran into some issue that annoyed him. Otherwise, he kept work at work, saying that since the shop was less than a ten minute walk away, he needed the separation.

Since Arryn’s visit, however, Gendry had overheard his foster father cursing at the milk while he deliberated at the refrigerator. He had allowed Gendry into the shop a couple of times in the past week, but he had only permitted Gendry to perform some of the simplest, safest tasks. Gendry had gotten sick of reorganizing the tools and taking inventory of supplies. When Gendry complained, Tobho had not budged. The following day, after another of Gendry’s nightmares, Tobho had spent several minutes more dressing down the contents of the refrigerator when he thought no one was listening.

Elinor seemed to believe that bad dreams were the result of dehydration, given that she was hellbent on pouring endless cups of tea, milk and juice into him at every opportunity. Gendry was surprised she had given in and gone back to bed without a fight, but he supposed they were all strung out after the week they’d had. He couldn’t help but feel guilty. After all, Arryn had come looking for Gendry; he had been keeping his foster parents up at all hours ever since.

Laying back down, Gendry wondered for the umpteenth time about that letter that Jon Arryn had mentioned. He couldn’t help but wonder if it would explain why he was getting that dream more often.

* * *

As it turned out, it was not a letter that came to the Mott residence next, but another robed man.

He was tall and thin and balding with piercing blue eyes, made all the more astonishing by his deep blue robes. The most striking thing about him was his severe face. If his expression were a bit kinder, he might have looked more like he belonged amongst the clergy.

“Stannis Baratheon.” He announced, advancing past Elinor into the sitting room without preamble. Baratheon’s eyes landed on Gendry, and he stopped short.

“What do you want?” Tobho had been coarse with Mr. Arryn, but now he blocked Gendry’s view of this new false septon by stepping in between them. Gendry realized Tobho positioned himself between them to interrupt Stannis Baratheon’s scrutiny of Gendry. “Mr. Arryn already came snooping around here and left some riddle about expecting a letter. If that’s why you’re here, you can go.”

“Letter?” Baratheon asked, momentarily taken aback. “Oh, yes, I can see it plain enough. Your letter will arrive soon enough. No, I’m here to ask what the boy knows of his parentage.”

It seemed that Jon Arryn had gone about his visit in a delicate manner. Stannis Baratheon, by contrast, was all bluntness.

“You think you can show up here and demand whatever answers at your whim?” Elinor had her hands on her hips and glared at the newcomer.

“My questions are for a reason, Mr. and Mrs. Mott.” Baratheon seemed completely unperturbed by their resistance. He paced back and forth a few steps before stopping. He turned to Tobho and asked: “You mentioned Mr. Arryn. Did Jon Arryn come by here? When?”

There was a pause while Tobho and Elinor shot each other looks in their silent method of communication.

“Do you know him?” Tobho finally asked, wary.

“Yes, I work with him. When did he come by here?”

“About a week and a half ago. Why?”

“What did he do when he was here? What did he say?”

Tobho was scowling with annoyance that Mr. Baratheon didn’t seem inclined to answer any of their questions. They watched as the balding man paced a couple more times.

“He came ‘round here, asked what we knew about Gendry’s parents. Not that we know anything, anyway. Then he asked about strange, unexplained events. It’s like he thought we’ve been harboring an alien.” To their collective surprise, Stannis Baratheon nodded solemnly, locking his eyes on Gendry.

“I see,” was all he said. When he frowned, the crease between his eyebrows was deep and showed that it was a common expression for him. The crease was deeply grooved into his brow.

“You say you work with Mr. Arryn,” Elinor broke the moment. “Why couldn’t you ask him about what we discussed?” She didn’t bother hiding her suspicion.

“Jon Arryn is dead.” The stranger answered simply. “He was getting on in age, and everything caught up to him.” Gendry didn’t know what to make of that. Certainly, the first man who came by had been quite old looking, but he had not seemed particularly unhealthy or frail.

“Be sure to open that letter, when it comes.” The Motts and Gendry broke from their trance as their visitor sailed out the door, leaving more questions than answers. That night, Tobho berated the pickle jar and Elinor constantly topped up Gendry’s glass at dinner.

* * *

It was two days later when the letter came, with yet another strange man. Where Jon Arryn had been the picture of refinement, and Stannis Baratheon had been nothing but stern, Yoren was all rough edges.

“Yoren, who?” Tobho had asked at the door, unwilling to let in another unexpected, uninvited guest.

“Just Yoren,” Yoren had said. “Come on, we’re wasting daylight.” Yoren had somehow managed to squeeze his way by Tobho and deposit a fat, slightly yellowed envelope onto the table.

“There you are, lad. This is yours.”

There, in vibrantly green ink, read:

_Mr. Gendry Waters_

_4b Steel Street_

_Flea Bottom, London_

Gendry looked up at the tall, grizzled man in his strange, rough clothes. Where the prior two men had come wearing long dark robes of fine materials, Yoren wore frayed trousers, a thick jumper and an enormous scuffed leather trench coat with more pockets than he could immediately count.

“Is this letter supposed to tell me why I’m strange?” Gendry asked. He was pretty sure there was a better way to word his question. He knew he had a thousand more questions that he wished to know the answers for. Somehow, this question blurted out first.

“Strange?” Yoren barked. “Why, you’re not strange at all, boy.” He leaned down and brought his face quite close to Gendry’s. His giant beard almost tickled his own.

“You’re a wizard, Gendry.”

There followed a long and meandering discussion that took most of the day. Gendry surprised himself by not being able to voice any further questions for Yoren. The letter explained rather a lot about why Gendry was seemingly always in some inexplicable situation. He sat in a daze, content to listen as Tobho and Elinor took up the cause and peppered Yoren with all sorts of questions.

Yes, Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon both really, truly, worked for the Ministry of Magic. No, Yoren had no idea what they were doing visiting Gendry; his only concern was notifying muggleborn children and their families of their acceptance into Hogwarts and preparing them for the start of the year. Yes, the magical world exists. No, this was no joke.

Yoren demonstrated this by drawing a length of wood – a _wand_ – and causing Elinor’s potted basil plant to grow and grow. He caused one of the wooden chairs to reshape itself into a wooden horse and clatter around the kitchen and living room. He returned the chair to it’s original state. He hypothesized that the car incident was some form of instinctive apparition that he demonstrated by disappearing and reappearing instantly across the room with a loud ‘crack.’ He continued to explain the ways of the magical world, and Gendry’s place in it.

Gendry had to go. It wasn’t a matter of being forced to, but Tobho and Elinor had no means of teaching him to control his abilities, and getting to meet other children with similar abilities; he wouldn’t be the strange one, anymore. Yoren muttered something else about an obscurus and how awful that might be, to have a bunch of those on the loose, but neither the Motts nor Gendry truly understood what that meant.

Things took on a whirlwind quality for Gendry. It was as though he experienced things in flashes, snapshots. He wasn’t the one eating his dinner; he merely watched as his hands went through the motions. Yoren had taken leave of them and promised to get him prepared for the school year the next day.

“You’re at the start of an adventure, boy.” Yoren had said before leaving. “I’ll be back to here bright and early, and we’ll get you sorted.” He guffawed at some inside joke.

That night, Gendry dreamed. He was a little boy again.

_The little boy was trying to catch up to the wooden chair as it turned into a horse and clattered just ahead. It ran into a field of basil, which stretched upwards. The basil grew and grew. It turned into a forest and he lost sight of the wooden horse, the towering canopy squeezing out the light above. Creeping through the fronds – the branches – of basil, the little boy snagged his foot and fell, tumbling down. There, just ahead, was a tiny door._

_Crouching at the tiny door, he saw it had no door knob. He pushed it open just a crack._

_The light from the living room glared at him, but the little boy found he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure how he had stuffed himself into the cupboard under the sink without causing a racket with the basket of detergent bottles, but he found he could just fit. He’d always been big for his age._

_Gendry squeezed his eyes shut to attempt some relief from the living room’s bare light bulb. How had the light’s shade fallen? Probably from the struggle. The entire living room was a mess. Opening his eyes and peaking out from behind the cupboard door, he saw several robed figures surrounding the woman on the floor._

_He had always loved his mother’s long, golden hair. It splayed out across the carpet and created ripples as she writhed on the floor._

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

“ _He’s not here!” Another burst of light hit her, and she suddenly relaxed with a sigh._

“ _It can stay this way,” another voice coaxed. “Just tell us where, and you can keep feeling this way.”_

“ _He’s not here. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s-” she gulped. “He’s not here.” Her words began to run together as her head lolled to one side, tugging a curtain of her hair into a new pattern. Like a painter brushing new strokes over the same canvas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled to write Stannis Baratheon’s scene. I wanted to show the Motts to be dedicated guardians for Gendry, but I also wanted to accomplish some exposition. Realistically, the Motts would have asked Arryn, and definitely Baratheon, to see some identification.  
> Weird men in robes/costumes come around and ask after the ten-year-old kid in their care? No sane parent/guardian would answer questions without first verifying who they are. But as ministry officials, they probably wouldn’t reveal the magical world, and I don’t know what a magical ID card would even look like to a muggle. Also, it’s fan fiction, so hopefully people will simply go with it and enjoy.  
> By the way, I forgot to mention this in the last (the first) chapter, but feedback is always welcome. I do my best to proof-read everything before I post, but there’s always something… Thanks again!


	3. Wand Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry visits Diagon Alley.

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

“ _He’s not here!” Another burst of light hit her, and she suddenly relaxed with a sigh._

“ _It can stay this way,” another voice coaxed. “Just tell us where, and you can keep feeling this way.”_

“ _He’s not here. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s-” she gulped. “He’s not here.” Her words began to run together as her head lolled to one side, tugging a curtain of her hair into a new pattern. Like a painter brushing new strokes over the same canvas._

Gendry was still trying to catch his breath, but he didn’t care. He scrambled out of bed and staggered to his desk.

After a few attempts, he finally achieved the shape of her face. The hair, tugged into it’s new arrangement, came naturally. He still couldn’t fill her face in, yet, so he shaded over it.

Tugging on the side desk drawer, Gendry carefully stacked it atop the other, previous versions that had met some level of satisfaction. A neat stack of tangled hair and shaded faces. His mum.

The knock at the door came and Elinor came in as he pushed the drawer closed.

“Can I get you anything?”

The early signs of dawn were bleeding at the horizon, and Gendry shook his head. It wouldn’t be long before the gruff man, Yoren, was supposed to come by, anyway.

Flopped back into bed, Gendry managed to sleep for another hour or so as the sun rose. Luckily, he didn’t revisit the cupboard under the sink again.

* * *

When Yoren arrived, they were just finishing breakfast.

“Ready to go?” Yoren barked at him, unfazed by Tobho’s cursing into the refrigerator and Elinor’s attempts to nudge a second glass of milk Gendry’s way. It seemed he was able to take a lot of things in stride.

“Where are we going?” Gendry managed to ask as they left the flat. He struggled to keep up with Yoren’s long, quick pace.

“King’s Landing.” It seemed Yoren had escorted many a muggleborn child into the magical world, so he launched into an explanation without being asked.

“King’s Landing is the magical side of London.” They boarded a bus and Yoren palmed the touch pad with an oyster card to pay. Gendry briefly wondered whether Yoren, too, was a muggleborn, if he had muggle transportation down with such ease.

“King’s Landing,” Yoren continued, “was so named because it was where Aegon Targaryen, Aegon the Conqueror, landed when he conquered Westeros. Westeros is what we call the magical side of the British Isles. Anyway, that was hundreds of years ago. Even most wizards don’t use King’s Landing and just call it London, since the two cities have become so intertwined. One’s just folded up into the other. It was all an effort the Targaryens made to try to rename everything, anyway. They wanted to leave their mark, and tried to tell everyone to call it King’s Landing, but it’s hard to get people to switch over when it’s spent so much time being called one thing.” Yoren considered Gendry’s expression for a moment.

“It’s a bit like the fight they had over whether to call the city in India either Mumbai or Bombay. Some people argued King’s Landing was more loyal to the Targaryens, or that London was purer to Westeros’s older history. The London or King’s Landing debate has gone on for a while now, even before the rebellion. Only now, people have gotten so used to calling it King’s Landing, that people sort of use them interchangeably, even though it’s official name was changed back to London after the war.”

All the way to a strange pub’s alleyway, Yoren gave a brief overview of history to explain the magical world to Gendry. The magical kingdoms like the North, Reach, and Crownlands. The Targaryens. Most were harmless, some were wonderful. Some were mental. Generations of the good ones, the wonderful ones, would spend their lives, those entire generations, picking up the pieces from the mental ones. Then another mad one would come round and break everything again. And so the good ones would try to piece everything together.

Gendry briefly questioned whether Yoren’s accounting was biased or not. It seemed to be fairly straightforward. Then again, he’d had a substitute teacher step in while Mrs. Walker took maternity leave. The substitute teacher had gone the extra mile to make sure the class knew the details of Bloody Sunday and Ireland’s long, historic struggle for independence. Mr. Fitz had eventually been replaced by Mr. Anderson, who had invested an entire afternoon lamenting the violence of the Irish Republican Army and their lack of honor and control. He, too, had eventually been replaced by Mr.Burman, who had walked them through their unit on the Irish potato famine, per their class syllabus.

At the end of it all, Gendry wondered whether an unbiased view was even possible. Yoren seemed not to particularly feel one way or the other, as far as Targaryens went, anyway.

Yoren drew his wand and tapped out a pattern on the bricks in the alleyway. Gendry watched as they shuffled in on themselves, folding back to reveal Diagon Alley.

Weaving their way towards Gringott’s Bank, Yoren described the Mad King, King Aerys. His beloved son, Prince Rhaegar and his beautiful wife Elia Martell. His sudden obsession with Lyanna Stark. The abduction and the escalating events that finally blew out into a full scale civil war that was only barely contained within the magical realm. Even at that, the muggle world suffered, though they didn’t know why.

Through Yoren’s recounting of these tales, Gendry let himself soak everything in. Yoren’s lecture, the shop that sold vials of strange plants and potions. A normal looking grocery store that sold produce that looked oh so normal. Normal, that was, until Gendry drew close to inspect a barrel crab apples, only to have one of them snap a pincer at him in annoyance.

There was a shop that, from the outside, looked like a hole in the wall, but the windows showed the endless expanse of bookshelves within, crammed with libraries worth of tomes. They passed a crowd of children Gendry’s age and perhaps a bit older, who were gawking at the new Vesper line of racing broomsticks, designed to fly higher than the Cleansweeps.

Finally, they made it to Gringott’s Bank, and Yoren explained that the Ministry of Magic always provided a generous starter account to muggleborn students to pay for their supplies. The magical and muggle economies were carefully kept separate.

A harrowing ride in what looked like a mining cart later, and the goblin guiding Gendry and Yoren delivered them to his vault.

Whatever Gendry was expecting, it wasn’t a gleaming pile of gold coins that would, in the muggle world, have afforded the Motts to retire in luxury for the rest of their lives. The larger pile of silver coins could have also brought a good amount of comfort to them. There was also a small mountain of bronze coins. Tobho had lectured Gendry on the rising expense of nickel and chromium alloys used in car parts, so Gendry had no doubt the bronze coins would have fetched a nice retirement, as well.

On a little table in the corner was a neat stack of the galleons, sickles and some bronze knuts. Yoren explained that the tables placed in these vaults for muggleborn students were enchanted to arrange a budgeted amount of coin before each term. Before each year, all Gendry would need to do was take what was on the table, and it would be enough for his school supplies and some additional spending money.

“Now,” Yoren clapped his hands. “Let’s get to it.”

Gendry bought quills, ink and packs of parchment rolls. He bought a cauldron that looked like it belonged in some medieval movie where a hag would poison a princess. Yoren finally noticed Gendry was struggling to carry everything, even after dumping his other supplies into the cauldron.

“That’s on me,” Yoren guffawed at Gendry’s predicament. “I normally go to this shop first.”

Gendry bought his school trunk, which turned out to have a magical enchantment to fit everything he could possibly need in it. It wasn’t exactly weightless, but it didn’t weigh anywhere near as much as it should.

Yoren explained the different houses at Hogwarts. It seemed odd to Gendry that with so many magical creatures that seemed to exist in this magical world, that the four houses of a magical school wold have ordinary animal mascots. A raven, a lion, a badger and a snake? He’d expected unicorns or griffins. Maybe a sphinx, if they existed.

It was as they passed by the noisy shop with all manner of rattling cages and screeches that Gendry found his sleeve snagged. Looking down, he found a tawny owl had taken a beakful of his sleeve and seemed determined to keep hold.

“Looks like you’ve met your match,” Yoren grumbled. He had seemed to be in a hurry, but now stroked at his beard. After some deliberation, watching Gendry’s failed attempts to snatch his sleeve back, Yoren seemed to nod to himself.

“You’ll need some way to keep in touch with the Motts, anyhow.” He stepped inside, grabbed a giant bag of feed, slapped some coin down and strode back out to join Gendry. “Come on, daylight’s wasting.” It was with some additional tugging that Gendry managed to pry his sleeve away from the owl’s beak. He had a feeling Elinor might not be amused with the hole in his shirt.

Finally, finally. Gendry had itched to see whether he would truly get a wand.

Standing on the stoop of the shop, however, Gendry found himself frozen in uncertainty. Yoren had mentioned that this stop would perhaps be the most consequential purchase of his wizarding career. Turning his head, he found himself alone now, since Yoren had grabbed the owl cage and trunk and promptly wandered off, telling Gendry he’d find him later.

Looking up at the peeling gold letters, he swallowed and stepped inside as the little bell tinkled overhead. Though the lettering outside had read Garth’s Wand Shop, Yoren had explained that the legendary Garth Greenhand was, of course, no more, and that the Greenhands had died out, leaving their apprentices to continue the work of their masters.

Once inside, the counter displayed a name block that read “ _Master Aemon Targaryen_ ,” which explained why Yoren had told Gendry he was lucky he’d meet one of the last dragons of the land.

An ancient silver-haired man rounded a corner from a back room.

Right away, it was clear this man’s hair had always been silver. His purple eyes had taken on a milky quality and though his hands trailed the counter to help guide him around the shop, his expression was one of rapt attention.

“Hello, young man.” The withered voice addressed him kindly. “Might you be in need of a wand?”

“Erm, yes.” Gendry had no idea how the blind man had known he was a boy. The wizened man chuckled.

“Quite shy, aren’t you?” He stuck out a hand and Gendry shook it. “Might I touch your face?”

“Yes, Mr. Targaryen.” Gendry said uncertainly. “Sir.” Another chuckle.

“You can simply call me Master Aemon. Or just Aemon.”

Master Aemon’s hands were dry, and gentle fingers traced over Gendry’s face. Master Aemon hummed and murmured as he digested Gendry’s face.

“Now,” the man turned away and rifled nimble hands along shelves crammed with long, thin boxes. “What might your name be, young man?”

Gendry blinked. Master Aemon was perhaps the first magical person to address him as ‘young man’ rather than ‘boy.’

“Gendry Waters, sir.” Master Aemon waved a dismissive hand.

“Enough with the ‘sirs’ my boy. But, I see you prefer formalities. Master Aemon will do.”

“Yes, sir. I mean – Master Aemon.” Gendry’s stumbling self-correction gave rise to another chuckle, this time from somewhere down an aisle of yet more shelves of boxes.

The silver head popped out from behind an aisle and Master Aemon reapproached Gendry, carrying two of the long, slender boxes. Gendry’s mounting excitement receded, however, when he set them aside on the counter and turned back to Gendry.

“Gendry Waters,” he murmured to himself. Again, the dry, papery fingers traced over Gendry’s face again before going to the top of his head and outlining the silhouette of his shoulders. His hands were warm as he felt down the length of his arms and turned Gendry’s hands over in his own. “Right-handed, hmm,” he hummed to himself. “Gendry Waters.” He mused again. “Fascinating.”

“What’s fascinating?”

The purple gaze, though glazed over, somehow found his own.

“You are.” He turned Gendry’s hand over again and gave it a gentle pat. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Before Gendry could ask what any of that meant, Master Aemon had turned away.

“Try this one.” Gendry found a length of wood in his hand.

It was beautiful, with a lustrous shine and a comfortable weight. He looked up.

“Well, give it a wave.” He gave it a wave.

Nothing happened.

“Hmm.” Master Aemon didn’t seem fazed. He merely snatched the wand back, placed it back into it’s box and slid it down the counter top.

“This one is Silver Lime wood. Phoenix feather core, 13 inches. Rather flexible. Try it.”

And so it went. Master Aemon would periodically stroll about the shop, locating an arm full of boxes and present them to Gendry. Some of them produced odd clicking noises. Some of them, Master Aemon grabbed back before he could even touch them, somehow deciding they were already ill-matched.

One of them seemed to writhe under Gendry’s touch and he leapt back as the wand practically flew back into it’s box. Master Aemon had particularly loved that one and laughed about how obvious a reaction that should have been.

Master Aemon sensed that Gendry grew unsure, and eagerly told him that the process could take any length of time. Some people could walk in and their match would quite literally leap into their arms. Most took somewhere near an hour or two. The record in Master Aemon’s experience had been a wizard who had needed to come back two days in a row, trying practically every wand he had in stock. As it was, Gendry was right on track, although Gendry couldn’t help but feel as though Master Aemon was just being kind.

“Chestnut with a unicorn hair core, 10 ½ inches. A little bendy. Here.”

Nothing. Master Aemon took it back and tapped his fingers in thought. Those pale purple eyes searched his.

“Perhaps I’ve gone about this all wrong...” He mused. “Perhaps it’s the chance not taken...” With that, he stole back into the maze of aisles of boxes, leaving Gendry to stare at the pile of discarded wands at the front counter. He heard the rustle and shifting of the little boxes being shuffled around on dusty shelves.

“Here,” Master Aemon returned. “Willow. Dragon heartstring core. 11 ¼ inches. Unyielding.” The milky, purple eyes seemed to look at it questioningly as he handed it over.

The second Gendry held it, the rest of the shop faded. An incredible sense of wholeness welled from within him, and Gendry felt grounded. Warm, even. It seemed even the air in the room gave a sigh.

“Ah,” Master Aemon’s creaky voice was immeasurably satisfied. “Such a strange one, that one. _Unyielding,_ ” he mused again. “A rather strange quality for a wand of willow. What a match.” There was a hint of sadness, too. Regret, perhaps?

“What do you mean?” Gendry asked.

“Wands are near-sentient, young man.” Master Aemon creaked out. “They are like us, they are made up of a composition of parts to make a new whole. The blood, the bone the flesh we possess. These elements themselves are not wholly special in and of themselves. But when combined as one, we are no longer crude ingredients cobbled together. We are made into beings with souls.

“ _Wands_ , my dear boy. Wands are much the same. The cores are a bit of it’s soul, the wood completes it, gives it a home, a body. The length, the temperaments of each component, they combine to form a new, luminous whole greater than the sum of it’s parts.”

A dry, papery hand settled on Gendry’s shoulder.

“I had a feeling I knew you and yours the moment you stepped in, but I fear I attempted to ignore it. I oriented my selections for you based on those attributes that relate to one’s self; your eyes, your hair, your height. More than that, I was trying to find a match for your strength, your...” he fixed Gendry with a knowing look. “Your tendency towards temper, your stubbornness. I should have gone for your soul. This,” Master Aemon gestured to Gendry’s wand.

“Very few trees possess the magic to produce wand quality woods. When I find one, I am constantly keeping an eye on them. The trees with enough magic are ones that might be generous enough to give again, you see. Most trees are, in my experience. Some produce wands like clockwork. But sometimes,” he tapped Gendry’s wand. “Sometimes, a tree decides once is enough. Or else, they are simply not ready to give again for quite some time.”

“… So?” Gendry was thoroughly lost.

“Magical trees are wonderful habitat, great companions to magical creatures and wizard folk alike.” Master Aemon continued happily. “Some creatures, such as bowtruckles, are drawn to them on instinct. Unicorns also prefer magical places for foaling and shelter. Dragons are considered to be creatures of destruction, but they are often careful not to harm them. Phoenixes are creatures of some habit, and develop preferences.” Though blind, he gave Gendry a meaningful look. When Gendry failed to respond, he gave another gentle chuckle and continued:

“Phoenixes are typically solitary creatures, much of the time. Fiercely independent. It’s difficult to pin them down, but once they’ve made a decision, they’re as loyal as anyone could hope.” Before Gendry could ask what that meant, Master Aemon lifted Gendry’s hand, bringing the wand with it.

“The tree which gifted this wand was a particular haunt of one such phoenix, if I remember correctly. Some wandmakers disparage such poetry as nothing more than happenstance. But I am of the opinion that the past lives of our wands can have great impact on those of their masters’.”

Without further explanation, Gendry found himself unceremoniously ushered out of the shop. As soon as he was outside, the door snapped shut behind him and the sign in the window flipped to say ‘Closed.’ Turning around again, he found himself nose to beak with the tawny owl, held up in her cage by Yoren.

“You’re done? Good. The last boy I brought took ages and ages.” Yoren grunted. “Come on. I’m starving.”

Yoren bought them a meal at The Leaky Cauldron before guiding Gendry back to Flea Bottom. They were given odd looks for towing along a heavy-looking trunk and a caged owl, but went unbothered.

“I’ll be back to take you to King’s Cross station for the start of term.” Yoren stated when they’d reached the Mott’s flat. The strange, gruff man disappeared with another ‘crack!’

Gendry lay in bed staring at the wand on his bedside table. The warm summer air ruffled, and the tawny owl surveyed the night before taking off into the darkness. Tobho had finagled a strange sort of perch for her out of broken or spare parts from the shop, and she had taken to it eagerly.

As darkness gathered, she shuffled off her perch, experimentally flapped her wings on the window ledge and took off into the night. Gendry wasn’t entirely sure how owl ownership worked. Was he supposed to just let her come and go as she pleased? Yoren had mentioned the need for communication, so was she the magical version of a carrier pigeon?

His eyelids grew heavy. The night breeze lifted and tapped leaves from the nearby trees together. Flea Bottom didn’t have much in the way of urban greenery. In fact, the only reason trees and shrubs even existed in this part of Flea Bottom was an effort to develop Flea Bottom some decades back. Some property developer had wanted to gentrify the area, only to give up when issues of corruption had been discovered. The trees he’d had planted were now grown, the only tangible evidence that such an effort had ever been made.

That night, Gendry’s dreams were free from wooden horses, forests of basil and sink cupboards. That night, Gendry dreamed of cobbled streets and fluttering owls.


	4. Rhymes and Riddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry encounters his peers and receives a hat's insight.

“Be good,” Elinor attempted to run a wet comb through his hair. Despite her efforts, they all knew Gendry’s unruly hair would pop right back up as soon as the comb ran it’s course.

“And we expect a letter every week for the first month, at least.” She seemed to be itching to pour him another glass of milk, but Tobho had confiscated the milk jug from her. He had put his foot down, saying he wanted enough milk left for himself for a change. “And write us as soon as you know whether Fabia can handle a care package.” Fabia, the tawny owl Gendry had finally named, clicked her beak and gave Elinor an indignant look. Whether it was from affront that Elinor doubted her abilities, or offense that she’d be reduced to carting around unnecessary food, Gendry didn’t know.

“Leave him alone,” Tobho plead. “He’s going to a school, not the desert. They’ll feed him while he’s there.” Tobho closed the refrigerator door and turned to face them. Since Diagon Alley, Gendry had only dreamt of the cupboard under the sink once, and not for the last week. Thus, the contents of the fridge went unassailed by Tobho’s expletives. He fixed Gendry with a look.

“You will write us every month, though.” It wasn’t a question, and Gendry nodded in agreement.

He had been with the Motts for around a year and a half, now. He was still a little surprised they’d managed to keep him this long. Usually, his night terrors would scare any other children in his previous homes, or else the strange occurrences that seemed to follow him would prompt a move out of necessity. Now they knew he was a wizard, he wondered whether he’d be coming back here, or if he’d spend the holidays with a different family.

It was a toss up, as far as Gendry could figure. On the one hand, there were a whole host of unknowns. Could he accidentally hurt someone? On the other hand, they knew now he didn’t do those things on purpose; he hoped they knew, at least. Maybe they’d feel bad for him and he’d be allowed to come back. He’d be spending most of his time at Hogwarts anyway, until he aged out.

Tobho had been the first one to put a hammer in his hands when Gendry’s temper had been about to burst. Had burst, given the fights he had gotten into at school that week. He’d taken Gendry round to the back lot where the junk cars were stored until they could be taken to the junk yard en masse. Stripped of any parts of value or use, they were little more than chassis with painted shells and moldy seats.

With a pair of safety goggles and work gloves, Tobho had told Gendry to go at it until he couldn’t lift the hammer, and Gendry had complied. He had been only nine or so at the time, and had been left exhausted, with a clicking elbow, after the first few swings. But he had still managed to crack the windshield, break a window and make several dents in the body. And he had managed to avoid getting into fights at school for the rest of that week.

Even when there weren’t any cars available for tirades, Tobho had started keeping a stash of old tires in stock for the express purpose of Gendry’s frustration. It was far less satisfying and the rebounding hammer had nearly knocked Gendry down several times, but they did the job nonetheless.

“Here, make sure you’ve packed this,” Elinor was tucking a third sandwich bag into his school trunk. It seemed she was enjoying the benefits of the endless space in the trunk more than even Gendry. “And this.” She produced a thermos and stuck it in between the sandwich bags. “It’s milk, in case the sandwiches get too dry.” She explained. Tobho rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“Any more milk and the boy’ll float away,” he complained. He turned to Gendry. “You’d better latch it closed before she makes a run to buy you a cow.”

A ‘crack!’ sounded from the hallway outside their flat, and Gendry stood to answer the door.

“You sure you’ve got everything, boy?” He growled at Gendry, who nodded. The Motts had double and triple checked his packing. Elinor, because she kept trying to stick extra things in there, and Tobho, because he was fascinated with the trunk’s endless capacity. Tobho had personally made Gendry re-empty his trunk just so Tobho could experiment fitting everything he could think of inside. Once he’d packed away half of the living room’s furniture and a good amount of the kitchen’s contents, Tobho had finally given up, marveling at such a feat.

“Good.” Yoren was saying. “Let’s go.” Yoren, it seemed, was not one for small talk and drawn out goodbyes. Still, Elinor swooped in to pepper kisses over Gendry’s face. She would ordinarily refrain from such displays of affection, not wanting to overwhelm him, but Gendry figured she would milk this chance for everything it was worth. Especially because he had indeed locked it, and she couldn’t sneak any more actual milk into his trunk.

Tobho gave Gendry’s shoulders a squeeze and gave some signal to Elinor. Gendry still couldn’t read the two of them perfectly, but he recognized that their eyebrow wiggles to each other were some form of predetermined signal.

“Mr. Yoren,” Elinor took up Yoren’s attention. “I just want to be sure he’ll get enough to eat while he’s there. He’s always been in the highest percentile for height for his age, you know. It’s astonishing, really, how fast he’s grown, and he hasn’t even reached the age where boys hit their biggest growth spurts.

“Is there a set of dietary guidelines the school follows for students? Sometimes Gendry forgets to eat, and I’m afraid it’ll stunt his growth. Is there anyone at that school who monitors the children to make sure they’re getting enough to eat? Is it healthy food? Do they get all their nutrients? Is there…?” Elinor’s voice continued on it’s rapid pace, both firing off questions and soliloquizing on the struggles of feeding a child with a black hole for a stomach.

Tobho Mott had pulled him aside, however, and fixed Gendry with a determined gaze.

“You’ve had a lot put on you.” He stated quietly. It was one of those statements Tobho gave when he wanted Gendry to volunteer an answer without being explicitly asked.

Gendry shrugged.

“You’re going to go through a lot more change.” Tobho tried again.

Gendry shrugged again. Tobho sighed.

“We know you have to go. You have to learn to use this gift that you have.” Gendry nodded. Tobho glanced over to where Yoren was trying to pretend at listening to Elinor’s spiel.

“The thing is,” Tobho continued. “You’ve never had an easy path, but you’ve always been strong, inside as well as out.” He seemed to pause to rehearse the best wording in his head. He shook his head and blew out a breath. “I’m sure Elinor would have some poetic way of saying this, but she’s best at keeping people busy, so it’s down to me.” He took a breath.

“This is an opportunity, this place. Hogwarts. It’s an opportunity to learn about your gifts, yes, but it’s also a fresh start.” He paused again. “You’ve always been strong,” he repeated. “But there are some things you can’t muscle your way through. There’s a struggle inside of you, and it’ll take more than denting a few cars to sort it out.” He patted Gendry’s shoulder.

“Just … study hard. Embrace this change as an opportunity. Try and be open to making friends, alright?” A pause. Tobho usually liked to sum things up by repeating the important bits as bullet points, and he did not disappoint.

“Study hard. Be open to friends.”

Study hard. Be open to friends.

Through the tube and guided through a brick wall, of all things.

“I’ll be there at the other end when you’ve arrived.” Yoren gruffed before disappearing.

Study hard. Be open to friends. Those words rang through Gendry’s head all the way to the platform, with many students and trunks and cages with owls and cats and at least one toad.

The Hogwarts Express was as normal a train as he could imagine, considering he’d had to go through a brick wall to board it. Yoren had brought him a bit early, despite Elinor’s efforts to delay their departure while Tobho gave Gendry his parting speech.

Gendry found an empty compartment without too much trouble. Sitting down, however, he immediately questioned whether he should try to find a compartment with other students. He near-simultaneously dispelled such a notion. He wouldn’t make friends by grovelling for company before even reaching the school.

Study hard. Be open to friends.

Without much else to do, he sorted through his textbooks and decided to flip through the herbology book. He’d named Fabia after the pea and bean family of plants. She had come back from one of her hunts with bits of sweet pea flowers stuck to her talons, along with the mouse she’d trapped. The train whistle sounded and the train jolted into motion.

“Are you a first year?” A boy’s voice piped up from the doorway. Gendry looked up to find two boys looking at him.

“Yeah, he is,” the slightly taller boy said, gesturing to Gendry’s textbook. The taller boy stuck out his hand which Gendry shook. “I’m Domeric Bolton. This is my brother Ramsay. He’s a first year, too.” He shot Gendry a smile before looking at Ramsay. “Will you be alright?” Ramsay rolled his eyes.

“It’ll better than hanging out with you and your friends.” Ramsay quipped, dragging his trunk in and heaving it onto the overhead rack. Domeric sent Gendry an uneasy look and hesitated.

“Well, if you’re sure-”

“Merlin’s beard, just shove off already.” Ramsay had flung himself into the seat across from Gendry and he used his foot to slide the door shut with a snap in Domeric’s face. Domeric shot Gendry an apologetic look and disappeared down the hall.

“Sorry about him,” Ramsay was saying. “Our dad told him to keep an eye on me, and he’s been acting clingy ever since. I swear I can’t decide whether he’s afraid I’ll wander into a pack of hippogriffs or if he’s afraid I’m about to go round kicking puppies for fun.” He shook his head and huffed.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

Before Gendry could answer, the door slid open again.

“Can we sit in here? I’ve brought snacks to share.” Another two boys stood in the doorway, jostled with other students passing behind them. The speaker was round and slightly shorter than the blond boy, who was quite thin with bright yellow hair. A girl’s trunk got stuck behind them and with an annoyed huff, she yanked at it, bumping the round boy into the compartment.

Once everyone was settled and eating some of the most delicious mince pies Gendry had ever tasted, conversation began anew.

“I’m Hot Pie,” the boy with the snacks pronounced around a mouthful.

“Is that really your name?” Ramsay asked. Hot Pie nodded, completely serious.

“For real?” Ramsay didn’t seem convinced, and Gendry didn’t blame him. Another earnest nod.

“That’s all anyone ever calls me.”

“Your parents named you ‘Hot Pie?’” Ramsay pressed. Hot Pie shrugged.

“They named me something else, but no one can ever pronounce it. I swear, even my mum can’t keep the pronunciation straight.”

“I haven’t been able to get anything else out of him,” the blond boy offered. “I’m Lommy Greenhands.”

“Gendry Waters.” Gendry offered. Study hard. Be open to friends. Maybe he’d be able to navigate this, after all. How hard could this be?

“Ramsay Bolton.” Gendry had been about to reach for another mince pie but he found that Hot Pie had dropped the box, with one of the little pies rolling out onto the floor.

“Bolton?” Hot Pie repeated, looking stricken. The other three looked at him. Hot Pie glanced at Gendry and Lommy and gulped. He couldn’t seem to look Ramsay in the eye. “It’s just,” he licked his lips and swallowed nervously. “The Boltons are known for … for being an old wizarding family, is all.”

“Is that all?” Ramsay asked. Hot Pie swallowed again.

“I didn’t know there was such a thing as wizarding families,” Lommy said wonderingly. “I guess that makes sense, though, wouldn’t it? Since there are normal – I mean, well, muggle families and all.”

“So you’re a mud blood, then?” Ramsay turned to Lommy and looking him up and down. “Makes sense if you can’t even figure out something so simple. Are you simple?” His voice had taken on an eerie, taunting quality. Ramsay fixed his pale stare at Hot Pie again.

“You’re no mud blood if you’ve heard the name Bolton and yet,” he blinked and gave a smirk. “You smell like a half-blood to me.” Hot Pie’s face went pink and Ramsay chuckled. “Don’t worry, I know it’s not your fault, having tainted blood. And anyway, it’s still better than being a blood traitor.” Ramsay smoothly got to his feet. He gave Gendry an assessing look.

“You’re no better than them, judging by the look on your face.” He scoffed. “I knew Hogwarts had gone downhill, but Domeric never warned me _this_ much riff raff had wormed its way into the school.” He jerked his trunk from the rack overhead and swirled down the hall without a second glance.

An awkward silence followed his departure.

“What was all of _that_?” Lommy finally asked. Hot Pie blew his cheeks out.

“The Boltons are bad news,” Hot Pie stated frankly. “They’re known to be one of the darkest wizarding families ever. They’ve turned out more dark wizards than the Targaryens, the Blackwoods, the Lannisters, and … well, a whole lot of other old families combined. Although,” he cut himself off to consider. “I suppose the Targaryens have only been here for a few hundred years, which is nothing compared to all the others. Even the Tyrells have been prancing around Highgarden for, I dunno, forever.

“Besides, Targaryens aren’t known for being _dark_ wizards so much as just going mental every now and then. But still,” he threw them a dark look. “The Boltons are one of the most feared families for a reason. There’s a rhyme and everything.”

“A rhyme?” Lommy asked skeptically. Hot Pie nodded earnestly again before reciting:

“ _Always a Bolton fear;_

_With mere dark thoughts they flay._

_Should ever a Bolton be near_

_Flee now, while you still may._ ”

Lommy scoffed in disbelief.

“ _Please_ tell me you just made that up. There can’t possibly be a whole rhyme about a single family. It’s not even a good one. _”_

“It’s true!” Hot Pie insisted. He turned to Gendry. “Back me up here, will you? Tell him!”

Gendry felt caught. Should he admit he was a muggle-born? It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Ramsay’s use of the term ‘mud blood’ was a slur for someone muggle-born. It also didn’t seem as though Hot Pie had a problem with blood status. Then again, could he blame Ramsay’s reaction for Hot Pie essentially implying that Ramsay came from an evil family? Domeric hadn’t seemed bad.

Why was he forced into sorting out the moral implications of how to choose friends so soon? He hadn’t even made it to school, yet. Hot Pie clearly wasn’t without his own prejudices. Ramsay had seemed so normal at the start, but he’d turned in a flash and gone off about blood purity and riff raff.

Was this what the school drama would be centered around? With everyone obsessing over who was the purest of blood and who was trash? Gendry was pretty sure he preferred being the strange outcast back in the muggle world to this.

All of these thoughts flurried through his mind in a moment, and Gendry ended up just shrugging at Hot Pie. Hot Pie huffed and turned back to Lommy.

“Well, it’s true!”

The two of them spent much of the rest of the train ride bantering back and forth. Hot Pie spent a good deal of time going into great detail about how he’d made the mince pies, and the system he’d come up with to make them all as uniform as possible. Gendry gave the occasional grunt or shrug but otherwise relegated his attention to the window or to tossing Fabia a treat now and then.

Lommy asked why the train seemed to have more compartments than necessary.

“Hogwarts is the best school in Westeros. It’s also the most expensive,” Hot Pie said to Lommy. “You’ve got schools and traveling tutors and stuff around different parts of Westeros – they say the one in Dorne isn’t too bad. But most families would never be able to afford the cost to go here. You’re a muggleborn, so your expenses are paid for – the ministry doesn’t want a bunch of obsuruses careening around. I’m able to go at a reduced rate because I live in Hogsmeade and there’s an ancient agreement between the school and the town that old residents can go for a reduced amount.” Hot Pie picked out another mince pie.

“But there’s tons and tons in King’s Landing and all around Westeros who can barely afford a wand, let alone the cost of a tutor to teach you how to use it.”

“Why?”

“It’s because of the war,” Hot Pie commented to Lommy. “Robert’s Rebellion. Did Yoren explain it to you? It left a lot of our infrastructure ruined, orphans, people were jobless and stuff. It got so bad, it even spilled into the muggle world. People got scared, a lot of magical folk stopped having kids. Thought it was too dangerous. A lot of the people who could afford it moved away too, to Australia and stuff. It’s why our year is so small. We’re only twelve or thirteen years out from the war, and a lot of people were worried the fighting would keep going.”

“Weren’t the Targaryens defeated, though?” Lommy asked. “Why would they keep fighting?”

“They aren’t all dead,” Hot Pie answered. “Besides, some people say the Dragon Lord didn’t actually die; that Robert Baratheon missed. Anyway, that’s why our year, and the two years ahead of us are so small. The next couple of years will probably be small, too. I’d bet you anything half the kids here were accidents that people decided to just keep around in case they could survive the war.” Hot Pie sat back, refolding his napkin.

“My mum thinks there’ll be an explosion in class sizes after that, though. It’ll be a race to see who can have as many kids as possible. A lot of wizarding families were nearly wiped out. Especially at the start, several of the northern families had their kids murdered right off the bat in one of Aerys’s fits.”

“Some other families have just been shrinking over time. Take the Boltons; there’s only like two of them left or something. The only family that came out of the war with any significant numbers were the Freys and _that’s_ because they breed like rabbits. They’re always going on about blood purity, too. Pathetic, really. They’ve got just as much muggle blood in them as any other family, and they still try to lord it over other people.”

“There’s a rhyme about the Freys, too:

“ _Old late Walder, came today_

_To woo a lady to his bed._

_Old late Walder, wants to stay_

_But babes abound; one need not wed._

_C_ _hoose a Rosby;_

_T_ _here’s Freys aplenty._ ”

Gendry rubbed at his eyes. Study hard. Be open to friends.

If his options for friends were either a bunch of brats obsessed with blood status, or else obsessed with hating the ones obsessed with blood status enough to memorize rhymes about them, he supposed there was nothing else for it but to study. He’d make it up to Tobho somehow.

He tuned the other two out and flipped through the potions textbook, though he didn’t understand half the words in it. Lacewing flies? He’d never heard of those. Hiccough draught? If such a thing were sold in the muggle world, someone could build a successful business.

Eventually, Hot Pie told them both they should change into their uniforms. It wasn’t long before they pulled to a stop at a platform where Yoren paced up and down the platform, directing returning students one way and calling all first years to him.

“You lucky whelps get a clear night tonight!” Yoren called out. “Most years get nothing but rain and wind, so count yourselves fortunate! Hurry up!”

* * *

Gendry could hardly believe his eyes. He’d seen castles before, both in pictures and a couple in person. One of his prior foster families had taken him to the Tower of London, which he’d liked well enough. But nothing compared to Hogwarts.

It was a castle.

Hogwarts was a castle. An actual castle.

Gendry knew Hogwarts was likely to be a posh school; Yoren had told him it was the preeminent school for witches and wizards in the country. It was also the oldest, if he remembered correctly. But there was posh, and then there was a castle. He’d grown up in Flea Bottom, where even glimpsing a place like the Tower of London or the London Eye was a joke. And now he’d be taking classes in a castle. And it was beautiful.

Maybe it was the night sky, with the silhouette of the castle rising from the other end of the lake. Maybe it was the gentle rocking of the boats they were seated in. Or the enchanting lights in all those windows on all those towers. Or even that all those lights were reflecting off the water of the lake. The lake’s surface was as still as glass.

All across the lake, it seemed a hushed silence was agreed upon. Aside from a whisper here and there, all was quiet and still as they approached. The castle got bigger, the towers grew taller, and all their heads tipped further back accordingly to take it all in.

Yoren led them all up the path from the dock to the castle. Once inside, a man in resplendent robes of green with gold trim met them.

“Thank you, Yoren,” he nodded at Yoren, who exited without pause. He turned to face the first years. In the brighter light, Gendry saw that he wasn’t like the other wizards he had seen so far. Jon Arryn and Stannis Baratheon had both worn robes of fine materials but each had an air of exhaustion about them. Yoren and Master Aemon had dressed and moved with a more eclectic aura. Master Aemon in particular, seemed to be ancient, but gave off a sense of youth and wonder. This man carried himself with a sense of self-contained knowledge and confidence.

This man was quite a bit younger than the others. Gendry was generally terrible with judging ages, but he couldn’t have been older than his mid to late twenties, at a guess. He was also exceedingly handsome. Gendry had no doubt the man before them had swooning admirers at every turn.

“I am Professor Loras Tyrell. I am the Deputy Headmaster here at Hogwarts,” he introduced himself. “This,” he held up a ragged old hat, “is the Sorting Hat. When the sorting begins, I will call your names one at a time. You’ll sit on the stool and I’ll place the hat on your head. When you are sorted, you’ll join your new house...”

As Professor Tyrell continued to explain the house point system, Gendry could feel his nerves fluctuating. He grew nervous at the thought that he might be sorted into a house with people who would hate him. He felt oddly calm at the thought that he’d merely be an outcast here, too. Whether in the muggle world or the magical one, Gendry supposed it wouldn’t make much difference. He was alone, either way.

The great doors opened, and everyone filed into the great hall, where the starry night sky took their breaths away.

The ceiling was nothing compared to the grubby hat that Professor Tyrell held, however. Professor Tyrell set the stool in place, placed the hat on top and stepped back. And it _sang_. It sang a jaunty song of feasting and sorting. It even included some allegory to a mermaid and then wrapped it up by encouraging everyone to compete to see whether they’d stuff more sweets in their heads than facts in their minds.

The returning students and the professors at the head table all applauded, and Professor Tyrell picked up the hat again. He held the Sorting Hat in one hand and unfurled a scroll of parchment with the other.

Of course, Ramsay Bolton sat on the stool while shooting a smirk at Hot Pie. When Professor Tyrell lowered the hat over Bolton’s head, the hat had barely settled when it again opened at the giant rip along it’s side and screamed:

“SLYTHERIN!” The table with green Slytherin banners erupted in cheers and he sauntered off to join his new house.

The sorting continued, and Gendry found his nerves to increase in their swings. He grew very nervous before realizing it might not matter, anyway. He’d have trouble breathing before remembering that the color scheme of a student’s robes wouldn’t change whether anyone liked each other. He was jittery until calm washed over him, because which table someone at breakfast at wouldn’t affect how people got on together, could it?

Given Gendry’s last name, he ended up tuning out most of the sorting. Finally, he heard Professor Tyrell call out:

“Waters, Gendry.”

He approached the stool, glad he wasn’t the last to be sorted. He didn’t want to stand out as the one to hold them up from dinner. The hall slipped from view as the hat’s brim fell over his eyes.

“ _I’ve been waiting for you,_ ” a sly voice mused. Gendry gave a little jump, now understanding why so many of those sorted before him had seemed twitchy.

“ _Waiting for me?_ ” Gendry wondered, and realized he had somehow spoken to the hat, though his mouth had not moved.

“ _I w_ _as wondering_ _when I might meet you,_ ” came the same sly response. The voice teased him. “ _It seems as though it’s time, hmm?_ ” Without elaborating on the cryptic remarks, the hat continued. “ _I see a great struggle within you, oh yes, your foster father is quite astute. It makes my job so much more …_ _ **interesting**_ _when I find a mind like yours._ ”

Gendry was getting sick of wise-looking magical people and things telling him empty, wise-sounding anecdotes. Was this just how people talked in the magical world? But Domeric and Ramsay Bolton had spoken normally. Hot Pie and Lommy hadn’t sounded like that. Yoren had been so straightforward as to be gruff. And that deputy headmaster, Loras Tyrell, had been all business.

“ _You’re one to keep an eye on, aren’t you? If you follow in the footsteps before you, I fear you’ll arrive where those steps will take you. But if you take another path,_ _ **my**_ _, would your horizons broaden._ ”

“ _I don’t understand._ ” Gendry said.

“ _All in good time, Mr. Waters,_ ” the hat answered back to him. “ _Certain things are meant to be revealed at certain times. But put aside your questions for a moment,_ _young man_ _, for I have much to think on._ ” A soft laugh.

“ _First and foremost, your work ethic comes to mind, pardon the pun,_ ” the hat giggled. “ _You’re a textbook example of Hufflepuff. You would do quite well there; black and yellow would suit you, I should think. You’d fit like a glove, although I’ve always been more partial to head ware. A little broody, perhaps, but I’m sure your housemates would open you right up. You’d be ideal, could take that house by storm, I’d say._ ” Another sly giggle.

“ _I see a great yearning to achieve in you. A need to make good -_ _ **‘Study hard and be open to friends,’**_ _to quote dear old Tobho, hmm? Yes, a deep desire._ _Your intellect is a bit clunky, a bit linear. Still, y_ _ou could flourish in a house like Ravenclaw._ _Y_ _ou’ve got a sharp mind, although a bit unrefined… hmm, there’s a rhyme there somewhere._

“ _You’ve certainly got the resourcefulness to survive for a house like Slytherin, haven’t you? Your sense of self-preservation has certainly been tried and tested._ ”

Gendry’s mind flooded with with flashes of a bare light bulb, of splayed hair rippling on the floor, of crouching under a sink while peeking out. Of creeping out from amongst the bottles on cramped, numb toes; climbing the counter top and stepping over the sink. Easing up the window. Of timing his movements to coincide with the screams. Her screams.

“ _No._ ” Gendry snarled at the hat. “ _I’m not doing that again._ ”

“ _Oh ho ho,_ ” that sly voice crowed. “ _Still waters_ _ **do**_ _run deep. Such an impressive sense of anger and guilt you carry. I might go so far as to say that you have a tempestuousness about you._ ” Again, the hat was toying with him with riddling words, except Gendry had no hope of figuring out the joke.

“ _Don’t think too hard on it,_ ” the hat’s tone became less teasing, almost tender. “ _All in due time. Now,_ _back_ _to business. I see you’d like to forge a path for yourself, and it cannot be done by simply sticking you in your comfort zone, no… And you’ve fairly obviously eliminated Slytherin although I_ _would be remiss if I did not_ _impress upon you: survival is not a sin._

“ _No, the choice is an obvious one, although you’ll be walking a fine line. Be careful when you reach a crossroads. The footsteps before you might lead you astray. Still, you_ _shall_ _have your wish..._ ”

“GRYFFINDOR!”

The hat was lifted and Gendry fairly stumbled to the table under the red and gold banners where students beckoned to him. Sitting down, he received slaps on the back and handshakes while students settled down.

“Merlin’s beard that one took ages!” Gendry heard one voice exclaim.

“What was he doing, telling the hat about his day?”

“How many are left? Can you see?”

Gendry checked around him, and indeed found some students gesturing to him and chatting to each other, although most were now losing interest. Fortunately for everyone, the sorting finished quickly after Gendry sat down.

Finally, when Elyana Westerling took her seat at the Ravenclaw table, a new hush fell over the great hall. An old, stern wizard in luxuriant robes stood from the center seat at the head table.

“A fine feast awaits you,” he stated. “Eat up and get rest tonight. You all start classes tomorrow.” Straight forward and stern. And with the clap of his hands, the tables blossomed. Before Gendry’s eyes, the platters bloomed with steaming food and pitchers of pumpkin juice appeared.

Gendry had never seen so much food in one place. It was piled everywhere, and it was all he could do to wait until a serving spoon was free for him to start loading his plate. As much as Elinor’s spiel to Yoren was designed to be a distraction, it was composed of bits of conversations she had truly had regarding Gendry’s appetite and food consumption. He routinely cleared away amounts of food that the average eleven-year-old would find impossible to eat in a single sitting. Then again, he was considered to be a bit tall for his age, so perhaps he was normal if measured by size rather than age.

The arrival of the ghosts was another shock to the first years. While a particular sensation amongst the muggle born students, Gendry quickly learned that half-blood and even pure-blood students had not necessarily seen a ghost in person before. And each house had a ghost to watch over them, whatever that might entail. And there were reportedly more ghosts flitting about the castle, besides.

“So what’d you and the hat talk about?” Hot Pie asked Gendry. Gendry hadn’t fully realized Hot Pie had been sitting just across from him. Looking up, he realized both he and Lommy were looking at him expectantly, having been sorted into Gryffindor, too.

It was just his luck that he would wind up with them. Gendry had dodged Slytherin which, by extension, allowed him to avoid Ramsay Bolton. But it seemed he wouldn’t be spared Hot Pie and his rambling descriptions of food and recitations of poetry.

“Just sorting stuff,” Gendry mumbled. He scooped more mashed potatoes onto his plate, marveling that the platters refilled themselves. Magic.

“Oh, come on.” Another boy cajoled Gendry. He looked to be a year or so older, and wore his red hair long and tied in a top knot on his head.

“I’m Thoros Myr,” the red head added for introduction, then switched to needling him again. “What _did_ take the hat so long?”

“Did it?” Gendry asked. He didn’t actually have a sense of how long his sorting had taken. Several others nodded vigorously.

“It sure did. Looked like you were fighting with it for a moment there. We were starting to think we’d be there half the night.” Gendry thought back to the hat’s cryptic remarks, the strange riddles. There was no way in the seven hells he was going to bring up the hat’s suggestion of Slytherin and the door that had opened.

Gendry looked up, realizing he had started to zone out and the others were still waiting for him to answer.

“Just sorting stuff.”

Gendry didn’t know whether he’d ever eaten so much in one sitting. He felt dead on his feet. Once they were dismissed from dinner, he and the other first years were guided up staircase after staircase. Eventually, they reached a painting with a lady in a pink dress reclining in luxury. They learned the password and the pink lady bid them enter, swinging her portrait forward on hinges to allow them entry. Gendry filed past the cozy common room, content to follow Hot Pie and Lommy as they climbed yet another set of stairs.

They flopped into their beds, and Gendry idly listened to the other two talk about how strange it was that Gryffindor only had three boys in their year.

“Robert’s Rebellion,” Hot Pie reminded Lommy darkly.

Gendry turned the sorting hat’s words over and over in his head.

_That night, Gendry dreamed of treading through basil, stepping into footsteps tread before him. When he looked up, he didn’t recognize where he was. Looking back to retrace the pretrodden path, Gendry found it had faded. A sly voice whispered nonsensical things to him, urging him on. He pressed on._

_The door. The tiny door. He crouched and crept up to it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to reduce Hogwarts’ student population, as far as descriptions. I’ve only charted out roughly six students per house year, three boys and three girls). My spreadsheet has about 6 students per house, or 24 per class year.  
> You should assume that, with the exception of the Gryffindors of Gendry’s year, and the Gryffindors both a year above and below him, there are probably more students than 24 per year, and that Gendry’s POV just has tunnel vision for his surroundings. Still, I crammed in Hot Pie’s explanation of prohibitive school costs and reduced birth rates because of the war as some extra substantiation.  
> I’ve charted out Gendry’s year, the two years ahead of him and one year behind him. There are a couple of reasons for this.  
> 1\. I’m lazy, and I don’t want to make up ten students per house, per year. I mainly made the spreadsheet to make my life easier down the road, in case I need to reference a name, etc. Sure, Gendry’s aware of it when Joffrey goes around being a shit and Margaery’s being a social butterfly, etc., but I’m trying to have Gendry’s solitary nature help me narrow down the focus.  
> 2\. Westerosi names are hard. Finding boys’ names isn’t too difficult, but the girls were really challenging because a lot of the existing names are quite similar and I didn’t want to have six Jeynes and a hoard of Alyses running around.


	5. Quidditch and Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry flies and learns to navigate the school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting – real life stuff came up. Luckily, this means the next chapter should coincide with real-life Halloween weekend.  
> I’ve received a couple of queries into the whereabouts of Robb and Jon. Concerning the Starks: You'll start to hear rumors about what's going on with the Starks over the course of this chapter and the next.  
> I will say that Gendry will meet Ned Stark relatively soon, so I have preemptively tagged Ned. A lot of character introductions are slow-burn in this story. If you’re hoping to meet Davos Seaworth or a whole pack of Starks in the next couple chapters, I’ll tell you this now: you won’t.  
> In other words/Spoiler: They do show up eventually. And they will have interactions with Gendry. Just note that the word ‘eventually’ is doing a lot of heavy lifting.  
> On a different order of business:  
> I’ve decided to start referring to the Lannisters by first name during dialogue.  
> Example: “Blah blah blah,” said Tyrion.  
> Instead of: “Blah blah blah,” said Professor Lannister.  
> There will be instances, including in this chapter, where I will deviate from this and go for the more formal version if it feels right. This is because Hogwarts has Tywin, Tyrion and Joffrey (not Baratheon) Lannister. I’m planning on having Myrcella Lannister join the class below Gendry’s, and then there will be four of them. For the sake of readability and my sanity, I will sometimes refer to them by first name.

The first few classes of term were a whirlwind. Luckily, their professors seemed to take it all in stride when he or another student stumbled into class late, gasping for breath, having gotten lost. They politely overlooked it when Gendry snagged his quill on his ink bottle and splattered it everywhere.

He didn’t know how he would ever get used to writing with a quill and ink. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking to pack any pens. With his luck, they probably wouldn’t work, anyway, if Hogwarts: A History’s explanation on muggle artifacts not working on school grounds was at all accurate. Still, he made a mental note to bring some next time and see if they worked.

So far, he was just relieved that he had managed to levitate his feather at all in charms. It seemed he truly was a wizard, after all.

He still needed to work on getting it back down, though. His feather kept getting stuck near the ceiling and wouldn’t lower until the charms professor, Professor Nudho, had obligingly done it for him to demonstrate.

“Very good, Mr. Waters,” she had said while giving him a smile. Gendry couldn’t decide whether he was proud of her compliments, or disappointed at being pointed out in class. His prior schools had been muggle ones, and he didn’t exactly need to shy away from odd things happening around him, anymore. It would have certainly counted as odd that he was taking a class in how to levitate objects.

Gendry didn’t know if he had a favorite class as yet. It was as if his prior concepts of likes or dislikes were rendered non-applicable. Everything was so different.

Gendry was equally clueless and fascinated by Theory of Magic. It didn’t matter how many times he read the explanations given in his textbook. _How_ could it be possible that one could transfigure water into wine? The very concept went against everything he had previously understood about the physical world. Somehow, the laws of thermodynamics were _supposedly_ left unharmed, but Gendry wasn’t so sure.

If magic neither neither truly created, nor truly destroyed matter, did that mean the water was transported away and replaced with wine from some other nebulous location? Where? From some predetermined barrel or bottle of wine? What if there was no wine left in the world? Did the magic magically pick, press and mature grapes all in an instant? What if there had been a blight on all the world’s grape vines?

“Think of it from the direction of energy rather than matter,” Gendry was told. “The magic doesn’t create new matter; merely converts it.” But what were the limits? To that, Gendry and the class received no satisfactory answer.

“There are a great many unknowns,” came the frustratingly cheerful tone of their professor. “In fact, the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic has an entire team devoted to answering these very questions. Now, let us discuss the delineation between transfiguration and charms...”

He was doing well in Charms thus far, near as he could tell. He felt at home in Transfigurations. There was always something new in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Potions was nice, too, though a bit unpredictable if he wasn’t paying attention. The subject itself was predictable. It was understandable to him, unlike Theory of Magic. And he enjoyed being able to go about his business without the expectation of being chatty. The potions professor, Professor Tyrion Lannister, had quipped that Gendry’s potions tended towards being ‘watery,’ but he had high hopes for him, yet. Herbology was particularly nice. He got to work with his hands, breathe nice air.

He supposed the only class he didn’t particularly enjoy all that much was History of Magic. Professor Pycelle was perhaps the oldest wizard he had ever seen.

 _Was_ , being the operative word.

Professor Pycelle was a ghost. Somehow, he still managed to audibly creak as he shuffled around, all while gliding in the ephemeral way ghosts do.

For all of Hot Pie’s groans and Lommy’s naps during History of Magic, Gendry found it to be a nice class. He was just as bored as anyone else, he supposed, but it was comforting to know that regardless of what world one lived in, boring teachers existed. The structure was nice. Gendry would sit in class in view of the south-facing windows. The sun would warm him while he idly took notes. Later, he’d gather at the study period with everyone else and rewrite everything with some sort of argument or hypothesis thrown in, and his essay would be done. Gendry didn’t know how Professor Pycelle even graded their essays since his hands – since his whole body – passed through anything solid, but Gendry was always too sleepy in that class to question it.

By the end of the first week, Hot Pie, Lommy and the rest of the Gryffindors had taken the hint that Gendry preferred solitude. Even the first year students in the other houses that shared classes with Gendry had started to give him space. Elissa Gosswhent, one of the first year Gryffindor girls, still put in the effort to smile at Gendry every so often for some reason. But she was one of those bubbly types who smiled at everyone, so he wasn’t too bothered by it.

It was the flying class that he and everyone looked forward to the most.

Gendry had been looking forward to this class more than any other, and had been immensely put out that they had to wait for a clear day for the first lesson.

“It’s to make sure nothing bad happens the first day,” one of the second years explained upon being heckled by impatient first years. “If it’s too windy or something, it makes everything harder, some kids will just end up being blown all over the place.”

Still, ever since Gendry had first seen the broomsticks in the shop window in Diagon Alley, crowded with other children craning their necks to get a glimpse, Gendry had itched for such a day to come. While they waited, their excitement had quickly spiraled into a fervor of obsession. Instead of gossip over which teacher would give out the most homework or who could earn the most house points by the end of the week, there was a sudden focus on broomsticks and quidditch.

Thoros Myr had gifted a few of his copies of _Quidditch Quarterly_ to the Gryffindor common room, saying anyone was welcome to read them. The inside tear-out section of one of them had quickly been torn out and passed around, and Gendry devoured it when he had his turn.

It was a beginner’s guide and explanation of quidditch. The rules, the positions, the different balls and their roles. Gendry thumbed through the well-used pages of the little booklet and did his best to memorize the basics. It made football, hockey – hells, almost any muggle sport – seem so dull in comparison.

Once Gendry had a handle of the basics, he had been drawn to the communal copies of _Quidditch Quarterly_. There were spreads featuring some of the top players in different leagues; this issue focused on the legendary rise of historic players Duncan Tall and Aegon V Targaryen almost a century before. They had started out as simple friends, boys flying amongst the hedges of the open countryside. Their skills as chasers who could seemingly read each other’s minds had meant they were inseparable. They became known as Dunk and Egg, the Hedge Chasers. The different leagues learned early on if they wanted to sign one to their team, they needed to sign the other, as well.

Dunk and Egg had remained lifelong friends, with Dunk eventually becoming a ceremonially knighted member of the crown’s personal cabinet of guards and advisers. He was henceforth formally known as Ser Duncan Tall, although most people continued to refer to him as Dunk. Throughout his career, he and Egg, who ascended to the throne as King Aegon, fifth of his name, continued to live as beloved fixtures in the quidditch world.

Gendry paid extra close attention to the article on Ruvi Modryc, who had become the highest-paid muggle-born quidditch player ever. He had attended Hogwarts on a ministry scholarship, as all muggle-born students do, and had made a name for himself on the Slytherin team as a chaser.

It had not been a smooth ride, because Robert’s Rebellion had erupted when he was a third year. There had also been a rise in political backlash against providing a free education to Hogwarts when so many half-blood and pure-blood students struggled to afford the same. All of this was while the crown had started to denounce such expenses.

Amidst the turmoil, Modryc had thrown himself into the team efforts. He had led the Slytherin house team to win the quidditch cup in his sixth year, and had nearly single-handedly won it again his seventh. Most of his team had graduated his sixth year, so his feats during his seventh year had had quidditch agents clamoring to sign him to their teams.

Gendry had daydreamed about flying quite a bit at this point. He would occasionally try to shake himself and dispel the delusion that he might ever learn to fly that well. These people, the Hedge Chasers Dunk and Egg, and Modryc, they had full spreads glorifying their storied careers and lives because they were the best of the best. Modryc was largely regarded as the best chaser in a generation, and Dunk and Egg were literally the stuff of legends. Still though…

The section of _Quidditch Quarterly_ that Gendry unabashedly stared at for hours were the pages that laid out the specifications of the leading broomsticks. They featured time-tested lines like the Cleansweeps, and top-of-the-line brooms like the Nimbus. Gendry lazily flipped forwards and backwards in this section, comparing the different brooms and imagining what differences there could possibly be between them, considering he’d never flown a broom at all, let alone specialty models like these.

Gendry sort of liked the looks of the Vesper series. He was probably biased, considering the first broom he had ever laid eyes on had been a Vesper in Diagon Alley. But still, it was lauded to be designed specifically for consistent steering, the better to orient oneself during the early or late hours, when the sun hung at it’s lowest and fliers risk their eyes in the tricky light. And unlike the Nimbus or Firebolt broomsticks, a Vesper was far more affordable while still a step up from a Cleansweep.

Whenever he got to this point, of dreaming of purchasing a broom, he had to stop himself. He had never so much as flown before. He had laid eyes on exactly one broomstick. Exactly one time. And here he was, imagining himself spending money he did not have for a broom he did not need for a sport he did not play.

Luckily, the first clear, calm day came early in the week during their second week of classes. The first years had all rushed to get there early and ogle the broomsticks laid out on the quidditch pitch. They barely even noticed the observations of some of the older students who had arrived to watch them meet the flying instructor.

Madame Farwynd had a weathered face and piercing eyes. She did not suffer foolishness. She laid down several rules and made it clear that students who broke them would see them booted from her class before they could say ‘snitch.’

At her call, Gendry had commanded his broom into his hand. Gendry’s broom leapt into his hand without hesitation and a feeling of belonging immediately took hold. At kickoff, the feeling grew. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt perfectly at home. Balanced. He didn’t mind it when Madame Farwynd used him as an example for the rest of the class.

“Hey, you’re really good,” Domeric Bolton told him after his flying lesson one day, ignoring the unspoken arrangement to leave Gendry to his own devices. The first years of the flying lessons had finally taken note of some of the older students who came to watch the first year flying lessons as a way to scope out possible candidates for tryouts the following year. As the class put away their gear and made to walk back to the castle, the team joined them.

"Er, thanks.” Gendry said. He was still unnerved whenever he thought about Ramsay’s sudden change into such a calculating, taunting personality, but he had yet to see this from Domeric.

“I saw you testing out that beater’s bat today. It’s tricky, flying with only one hand, and beaters are the only players who need to do it throughout the entire game.” Thoros Myr, another second year continued. “You looked good, handling the bat and flying at the same time. Have you thought about trying out for the team next year?”

“Erm, no, I hadn’t thought about it,” Gendry hedged.

“Well, think about it.” Another second year, Beric Dondarrion, said, popping up on Gendry’s other side. “You’re a natural. And most of Gryffindor’s team graduated last year. The three of us and Rygel Frey are all that’s left. Technically, Rygel’s the only one left from the last team. He’s a third year, and the rest of the last team all graduated last year. The four of us are having to start the team basically from scratch. I think we’ve managed to convince Eddison to join, too, though.” Eddison Tollett, another second year, and possibly the only one with a reputation for being more miserable than Gendry.

“Well,” Gendry vacillated. In truth, he really wanted an excuse to keep flying. He even liked the Gryffindor second years well enough, so if they made up half the team, it couldn’t be all bad.

Study hard. Be open to friends.

“Just think about it, yeah?” Domeric said, shooting a look at the other two to ease off. “You’re tall, especially for a first year, but still a bit skinny for a beater. Especially since the beaters on some of the other teams are sixth years and they’re huge.”

“You’ll have to watch yourself, then, eh?” Thoros slapped Domeric on the back. “It’s not like you’re the biggest beater either.” Domeric sighed. Beric turned to Gendry.

“You really are a natural,” Beric said. “Have you flown much before?” Gendry shook his head. “Ever?” Gendry shrugged.

“I didn’t even know I was a wizard before I got my letter.” Thoros’s eyes grew big.

“So, you’re a muggleborn who’s never seen a flying broom before Hogwarts, and you’re already this good at flying?” Thoros intoned. A sudden excitement sparked in Thoros’s face. “You’ve _got_ to try out, Gendry! You’ll be a legend!” He turned to Beric. “Do you think Professor Tyrell will let us take a first year onto the team?”

“Guys, shut up,” Domeric shut them down. Gendry was grateful that Domeric had seen his discomfort. Domeric turned to Gendry. “Look, it’s true; you’re amazing for a beginner. But the beaters on the other teams would eat you alive. I’m pretty sure _I’ll_ be eaten alive as it is, so don’t feel pressure now, okay? We’ll figure out the rest of the team for this season. No one’s really expecting Gryffindor to do well this year, anyway, since most of the team left last year.”

“Just come to a few games, yeah? You’ve got a whole year to think on it.”

Gendry nodded and the other three left him to ponder.

He’d always been told he was big for his age. The doctors had asked him again and again if he was sure of his age when he’d first been brought in. Though Gendry’s memory had faded since then, he knew he had been adamant at the time. The doctors had still asked him if he was sure. It turned out they were double-checking because he truly was just big for his age. It had been after a dental check that they had seemed satisfied with his age.

Since classes were done for the day and he had time before dinner, Gendry split off from the group. They continued on the path towards the castle and Gendry made his way down to the lake. It was a nice day, and he knew the weather wouldn’t hold out much longer. The leaves of a giant beech tree were already turning, and the smell of fall was creeping into the breeze.

Gendry settled onto a boulder near the path that led around the lake. The giant squid was playing some game with the ducks that picked their way along the lake’s surface. It would let the surface go quiet and let a lazy tentacle float up to the surface in the path of the ducks. Once the ducks drew near, it would plunge the tentacle downward, creating a slurry of chaotic waves, drenching them and scattering their careful formation. They didn’t seem to overly mind, though.

Study hard. Be open to friends.

He had, Gendry finally admitted to himself, decided to focus more on the studies part of Tobho’s request. And Gendry knew he was dragging his feet for the friends bit.

Joining a school team wouldn’t ruin his life, nor would it require him to be best friends with everyone. In all likelihood, it would be similar to school team dynamics in the muggle world, where he’d be expected to put in an appearance at team gatherings after games and the like. He could always just slip out of those early.

But he needed a broom to fly. The school brooms were allowed for use in games, but many of them were old and battered. He was new to this world and even Gendry could tell he’d be next to useless on one of the school brooms.

The brooms he’d seen on display in Diagon Alley had been costly, though. And even though Yoren had explained how generous the ministry was in helping muggleborns get started, Gendry didn’t know whether that generosity extended to playing games.

Walking back to the castle, he resolved himself to finding time to ask Yoren how that worked.

Tobho would be happy. Gendry could almost compose Tobho’s speech for him. Tobho would congratulate Gendry on discovering some new gift before dropping a hand on his shoulder and telling him that those other lads just wanted to spend time with him, play with him and get to know him. He’d say something heartfelt; probably that Gendry was a lad worth knowing. Knowing Tobho, he’d probably express pride in Gendry’s ability to find a pastime that involves hitting and smashing things as part of a team effort.

“You should just be grateful to even go here!” A voice sounded off as Gendry rounded the corner. He was standing at the inner edge of the courtyard outside the front doors, intent on heading to the entrance hall. The doorway to the entrance hall was blocked, however by a shining blond head and a Ravenclaw first year who was desperately trying to hold her tears at bay. Even at a first glance, Gendry recognized Joffrey Lannister, a Slytherin first year by his shining, platinum blonde hair.

“It used to be that only the best and most pure-blooded families could send their kids here. You should be addressing those of pure-blooded, noble families as ‘My Lord’ and ‘My Lady.’ That’s the tradition.”

“I’m here just the same as you,” Elyana Westerling quavered back at him.

“My mother says you’re only here because the ministry doesn’t want a bunch of obscuruses running amok throughout Westeros. You lot would become a danger to society. Besides, you’re just a placeholder since most of the pureblood families have yet to decide whether they want to start sending their kids here. It would mean their kids would be going to school with people like you.” Joffrey sneered.

“Many families have hired private tutors for their kids. My parents are sending me here out of respect for the headmaster. He’s my grandfather, in case you didn’t know.” Gendry fought the urge to snort. There wasn’t a single student at the school who hadn’t heard of Joffrey’s familial ties to Headmaster Tywin Lannister.

“My mother says the Starks hired a bunch of tutors rather than send their kids here. My mother always suspected they were blood traitors, but there you are. Just goes to show that even blood traitors have their limits. And it’s telling that even the Martells have chosen not to send their kids to Hogwarts, and my mother says that _they’re_ some of the biggest blood traitors Westeros has _ever seen_.” Joffrey looked ready to continue on some diatribe.

Elyana, even through her tears, started to glaze over and look a little lost at having to keep listening now that his insults were less to do with her and more to do with rattling off the political dynamics between pure-blood families. Gendry’s stomach growled.

“Go to dinner, Lannister.” Gendry spoke up. Joffrey turned his sneer to Gendry.

“Or what? Waters, isn’t it?”

“Or nothing. Go to dinner.” But Joffrey didn’t move from the entrance way and instead fixed Gendry with a stare, a condescending smile spreading wide.

“So it’s true then, you’re not much of a talker. What are you, then?” He looked Gendry up and down. “Part giant? Is that why you’re trying to outgrow Professor Pommingham’s beanstalks? It would make you a different sort of half-breed. Still, it’s better than being a mudblood like Westerling here-”

“Mr. Lannister,” a new voice cut out. The three of them jumped and turned to find the head of Slytherin house and potions professor, Tyrion Lannister, standing just behind Joffrey.

“Uncle-” Joffrey began.

But he was cut off with a loud _smack!_

Joffrey yelped. Elyana and Gendry stood by in stunned silence as Professor Lannister drew back from slapping Joffrey’s face.

“That’s _Professor_ to you, boy.” Professor Lannister jabbed a finger at Joffrey. Joffrey gingerly touched a hand to his face.

“You _can’t do_ that! Professors aren’t allowed to-”

_Smack!_

Professor Lannister straightened his sleeves as Joffrey let out another pitiful whimper.

“I very much did,” Professor Lannister replied smoothly. “Now, you will offer Miss Westerling and Mr. Waters your sincerest apologies.” A beat.

“ _Now._ ”

“I’m sorry I called you those names,” Joffrey mumbled, looking anywhere but at Elyana or Gendry. Another beat.

“Well. That has got to be one of the most feckless apologies I’ve ever heard. But it’s so, undeniably you, so I suppose that’s what we’ll get.” Professor Lannister narrowed his eyes at his nephew. Their confrontation had taken place on the entrance hall doorway’s front steps, and Professor Lannister had come from inside the school behind Joffrey who was a couple of steps down. This meant Professor Lannister was able to meet Joffrey at eye level.

“We’re finishing up our third week of classes, aren’t we?” He asked rhetorically. “How is Slytherin doing for points?” Joffrey was faced away from Gendry, but Elyana had the perfect view. Judging by the sudden glint in Elyana’s eyes, Joffrey saw what was coming, too.

“Uncle, _please_. I said I was sorr-”

“Ten points from Slytherin,” Tyrion commanded, “for your insults against Miss Westerling.” Even from Gendry’s poor angle, he could see that Joffrey’s eyes were growing rounder.

“Ten points,” Tyrion continued, talking over Joffrey’s spluttering. “From Slytherin for your insults against Mr. Waters.” It seemed some part in Joffrey had begun to deflate, but Tyrion wasn’t done.

“Fifteen points,” Tyrion said. Joffrey’s head snapped up to look at the head of Slytherin house in disbelief. “For the non-apology to both of them. And,” he fixed Joffrey with a hard stare. “Five points for disrespecting your professor. Your Head of House, no less.” He leaned back a moment and surveyed Joffrey’s shocked demeanor. The atmosphere changed, and Gendry shared in Elyana’s visible discomfort at having to continue to bare witness to what had become an awkward exchange.

“I’ve told you; when we’re at family functions, ‘Uncle’ is fine. But at school, I am one of your _professors_. Your grandfather is no longer; he is your _headmaster_. You’ll address everyone according to their station. Is that clear?” The blond head bobbed as Joffrey nodded. Gendry inwardly sighed, thinking it was over and he could go inside and get to the great hall.

“Say it.” Tyrion now commanded. Again, Elyana and Gendry tried not to fidget.

“Yes, Professor.” Joffrey muttered. He still kept a hand to his cheek, though both of them were now flaming. Tyrion took another moment to study his nephew.

“Good. You’re not done with this, yet,” he warned Joffrey. Joffrey looked up again, this time with some genuine confusion. “You’ll be serving detention, too.” Joffrey’s head lowered, again. “For now, go on in.” Joffrey bolted to flee inside before Professor Lannister could think of another punishment to dole out.

Without skipping a beat, Professor Lannister drew a handkerchief from the folds of his robes and offered it to Elyana.

“Are you alright, Miss Westerling?” She had already wiped most of her tears away on her sleeves, but politely dabbed at what remained with the offered handkerchief.

“Yes, I’m alright. Thank you, Professor.” She handed it back.

“I’m afraid I had to be additionally harsh on him,” he continued, now in a conversational tone. He gave an easy smile to the both of them. “I’d rather crack the whip now than have to reign him in later on.” He looked to Elyana. “Well, if you’re sure you’re alright, off you go.” She nodded and quickly retreated into the castle.

Professor Lannister stood directly in Gendry’s path to the school and it would feel strange to walk around him, so he waited while the potions professor to finish folding his handkerchief and tuck it away. It seemed the potions master was content to remain planted in Gendry’s path, however.

“That was rather chivalrous of you, to step in like that.” Professor Lannister commented. Gendry was reminded of Tobho’s favorite tactic of making a statement and hoping that Gendry would volunteer a response.

“I must say, you surprised me,” Professor Lannister flashed a smile at him. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear more than one or two syllables from you at a time. I see now you simply need an occasion to rise and meet.”

“Er,” Gendry let out. “Thank you, sir?” Professor Lannister gave a laugh and patted Gendry on the arm.

“Anyway, I didn’t want to do this in front of Mr. Lannister; it’s likely he’ll feel resentment towards you and Miss Westerling now, as it is.” He gave an ahem. “Ten points to Gryffindor. You’ve earned it, Mr. Waters.” He twirled and disappeared into the castle.

Finally walking into the entrance hall, Gendry saw the hourglasses that stood outside the great hall. Slytherin had been roughly tied with Ravenclaw that morning. Since it was still early in the school year, none of the houses had much in the way of points. Now, Ravenclaw was in first place with 52 points. Gryffindor was readjusting itself to reflect Gendry’s points, leaving the count at 44 points. Hufflepuff had 41. With Joffrey’s episode, Slytherin now sat at 13 points.

Gendry entered the great hall at roughly the same time as a few other stragglers heading to dinner from the depths of the castle. A pair of seventh year Slytherin girls glanced at the hourglass. Their mouths fell open and they immediately rushed inside to demand answers on what had happened. Gendry sat down and started filling his plate.

As news spread, more students began to get up from their respective tables to check the hourglasses themselves. The mounting uproar and rage at the Slytherin table was palpable, as they demanded to each other who was responsible.

Sniggers at the Ravenclaw table quickly drew attention as Sabitha Runesight, Elyana’s fellow Ravenclaw first year, regaled the table with what had transpired on the castle’s front steps. For her part, Elyana looked mortified, and a bit betrayed by Sabitha’s cavalier disclosure of what had apparently been a private tale between friends. As the tale spread, and as students kept getting up to examine the hourglasses, the details of what had transpired warped as well.

“I didn’t know you even talked, Waters!” Someone exclaimed. “And now you’re swooping in to rescue damsels in distress!” Gendry tried to hunch a little lower. There was doing something moderately good, and then there was asking for trouble. He had no intention of crossing that line.

“Is it true that Joffrey Lannister was trying to hex Elyana Westerling, and you saved her? Good one, mate!” Someone thumped Gendry’s back.

“You dueled Joffrey Lannister and _won_?! We haven’t even learned to duel properly, yet!”

Gendry stole a look up at the Slytherin table and immediately wished he hadn’t. Why had he sat facing their table?

Joffrey was glowering at both him and Elyana in turns. The hand-shaped prints on his face had gone, but his face was distinctly pink with humiliation and anger.

The saving grace for him was that everyone involved was a first year, and they were still within the month of September. And, of course, it helped that his uncle and grandfather were indeed the head of Slytherin house and headmaster of Hogwarts, respectively. If Joffrey had had any other last name, it was likely he’d be on the outs for quite a while longer than he would without the Lannister name.

They made eye contact. For all of Gendry’s conflicted feelings over how far to extend himself socially, he was no coward. Indignant pride rushed to consume him as he felt compelled to stare right back.

The likes of Joffrey couldn’t fathom how to survive in the system, let alone a place like Flea Bottom. Gendry held their eye contact, becoming increasingly infuriated that he even had to play this stupid game.

 _Of course_ he’d be caught in a stupid staring contest with a twat like Joffrey. Luckily for both of them, Headmaster Lannister chose that moment to enter the great hall. A hush fell, and Gendry and Joffrey mutually broke eye contact to watch the headmaster’s procession.

The headmaster ignored everyone, however, and maintained his pace up to the high table where he sat and began eating. Cautiously, conversation picked back up again.

Gendry had had enough. He cleared his plate as quickly as he could and stood to leave, ignoring the pats he received on his way out.

“It’s Gendry Waters, right?” Someone called out to him. Gendry suppressed a groan. He had technically made it out into the entrance hall, and he briefly considered picking up his pace, but ended up turning around. A tall, slim fourth year Ravenclaw approached him.

“I’m Jeyne, Jeyne Westerling.” She introduced herself. “Elyana’s my younger sister.” Gendry blinked and shook her outstretched hand.

“I know you were just escaping,” she hurried on. “I just wanted to thank you for standing up for her. And I wanted to let you know that she’s terribly embarrassed that this has blown up the way it has. She only told Sabitha what happened because they’re friends, and Sabitha didn’t realize Elyana wanted it to be kept quiet. It’s obvious you didn’t mean for this to become what it is, either. Don’t worry; it’s early in the year, so it’ll probably blow over in the next couple of weeks or so.

“Anyway, Sabitha’s promised not to do something like that again but she wasn’t sure whether you’d believe her if she told you directly, so I told Sabitha that I’d tell you that. Oh, and Sabitha and Elyana wanted me to tell you thank you, and that they hope this doesn’t cause you too much trouble. I personally wanted to tell you that I think what you did was really brave – standing up to a Lannister! But I also wanted to let you know that you probably shouldn’t do that again. I’m friends with a couple of Slytherins and _they’ve_ told me to tell you that he’s the sort who might hold a grudge. Also, the rest of the Ravenclaws told me to tell you that they say you did a good job. So good one!” She swooped in for a quick hug before Gendry realized what was happening.

“Thanks again!” She trilled, and was off, retracing her steps to the great hall.

Gendry wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened, but he wasn’t about to dissect what he had just heard. Whether it be Hogwarts or his prior, muggle school, it seemed every school came with a game of human telephone.

There’s always someone being conscripted to tell someone else that someone else wanted them to know something about what someone else said.

Or something.

He had just settled into his homework when the door to the dorm room flew open, banging on the wall.

“Wow, good job!” Lommy crowed. “Not only did you help take Joffrey down a peg, but I heard some of the sixth years in the common room just now. We’ve got an extra five or ten points that no one knows where they came from. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Gendry groaned.

“Cheer up,” Hot Pie said around a muffin he’d brought up from dinner. “I’m sure you’ll get more points in the future. Five points for a first year is pretty good. Usually, professors like to keep things small for first years.” Gendry groaned again.

He opened his mouth to ask whether people knew it was him, but he cut himself off. Could he really expect these two to keep quiet about it? He didn’t think so, so he wouldn’t bother asking.

“Besides,” Lommy grinned, unwilling to let Gendry’s mood darken his own. “Maybe it’ll put a stop to all of Joffrey’s bragging about his name. Although...” Lommy trailed, thinking.

“I thought he said his mother was a Lannister.” Lommy said, looking to Hot Pie for confirmation, who nodded. “But _his_ last name is Lannister? Do wizarding families take their mother’s names?” Lommy asked. Hot Pie scrunched his nose and shook his head. He swallowed down the last of his muffin.

“His mum and dad, they’re both Lannisters.” Hot Pie said. “His mother, Cersei Lannister, and his father, Lancel Lannister, are first cousins. Headmaster Tywin Lannister is Cersei’s father, and Tywin is brothers with Kevan Lannister, Lancel Lannister’s father.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and looked up to see Lommy and Gendry’s looks of horror.

“What? I told you, some houses take blood purity to a whole new level. Well,” Hot Pie amended. “That’s about as close a marriage as any of them get. Aside from the Targaryens, of course. They did the whole _sibling_ thing, and that _is_ illegal. But even most pure-blood families think it’s weird nowadays.”

“Are you sure?” Lommy asked, his face still twisted.

“Yeah,” Hot Pie nodded. “There were some rumors that Cersei and her twin brother Jaime had a thing for each other a while back, but nothing was ever proven and then she went and married Lancel, so that sort of changed things.

“I haven’t heard of a cousin to cousin marriage in the magical community since Cersei and Lancel Lannister. And I’m pretty sure they were the only cousin to cousin marriage since before Robert’s Rebellion. It was already falling out of fashion, since Aerys had been going mental for years by then.” He saw their faces.

“Look, my mum’s a witch, right? I mean, my dad’s a muggle, so half the time he’s got no clue what’s going on. But my mum works at The Three Broomsticks down in Hogsmeade. We live there, actually, so she hears all the gossip. I’ll take you there when we’re allowed to go there in our third year!

“Anyway, apparently, Tywin Lannister was against his daughter and his nephew marrying each other. He even tried to get his younger brother, Kevan, to intervene, and he did. So both of them were trying to keep Cersei and Lancel from going through with it, but they were both adults, and it’s technically not illegal, so there was nothing they could do.

“D’you want to know the kicker? Tywin Lannister was married to _his_ cousin, too. She died years ago, now, and he was wrecked over it. He loved her a lot. But I guess he thought enough was enough. Guess he didn’t want their line turning into another version of the Targaryens. Cousin to cousin is alright a couple of times, but if it goes on too long, things get weird. You get blood curses where no one’s cursed you and all that.” Hot Pie flopped onto his bed and rattled off more details.

“I think that’s what did Tywin Lannister’s wife in, actually,” he mused. “I don’t think anyone cursed her or anyone in her family, but it was as if she had been, she got sick. Same thing with Elia Martell – the prince’s wife. Technically, even _she_ was distant cousins with Prince Rhaegar. She was warned not to have any more kids, because it might kill her. They say that’s why Rhaegar went mental, too. Well, that and he was inbred. Wanted more heirs or something, I guess, so he went and kidnapped a Stark; one thing led to another, and you’ve got Robert’s Rebellion.” He turned his head to Lommy.

“That’s why even the most pure-blood families who hate muggleborns haven’t been marrying within their own families anymore. Take the Martells. My mum says Oberyn Martell went off the deep end after his sister, Elia, was killed in the war. They say that ever since, he’s been having kids with as many muggle and muggleborn women as he can.

“My mum says he’s just taking out his feelings, but my dad says he must be trying to diversify the Martell gene pool. He’s got a whole host of daughters because of it. They’ve even got the nickname ‘The Sand Snakes.’ Can’t figure out why, though, other than they’ve got sand in Dorne. And snakes. But we’ve got them here, too. Maybe a bit less sand. And snakes.”

Gendry closed his eyes. It said a lot that Hot Pie now seemed like a reasonable person to Gendry. This school, this world, kept getting weirder and weirder.

_Gendry eased the cupboard door open. Stepping out, his feet immediately began tingling after being cramped for however long he’d been curled inside. He felt a sudden cool breeze ruffle the back of his neck and he remembered the kitchen window was open behind him. He just needed to get up onto the counter and he could drop out of the window into the garden outside._

_Clambering up onto the counter top, he froze when he sensed a change in the living room. Mum was sighing from relief again. She giggled._

_Gendry eased the window up so he could fit through, fixing his eyes on the figures in the living room. His eyes slid down and he stilled at what he saw._

_Through the legs of the figures standing over her, Mum was smiling at him. This was a real smile. With the presence of happiness, of relief, rather than the absence of pain._

_He must have lost time somehow. Or perhaps it had simply happened too fast._

_One moment, he was crouched in the kitchen window, locking eyes with Mum with her smiling at him. The next, he was in the dirt, scratched by thorns on the way down and with damp splinters pricking through his clothes._


	6. Ghostly Warnings, Ghosts, and Warnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts shows Gendry a new view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each core class is shared between all of the houses. Instead of in JKR’s Hogwarts, where it seems only two houses might share a class at any given time, I’m dumping everyone together. This is because I don’t want to manage another spreadsheet with a bunch of timetables to schedule out the classes. If the first year Gryffindors are in history class, then all of the first years are in history class together. I’ve justified it in my head that with the smaller class sizes, more students can fit into the same class, and everything will be easier for faculty members, too.  
> Special thanks to the subreddit: r/TheCitadel, who completely blew up my carefully laid long-term plans when giving me ideas regarding ghosts. Cheers.  
> Happy Halloween!

To Gendry’s relief, Lommy and Hot Pie gave him space after the incident where Joffrey had lost Slytherin’s point lead. The rest of Gryffindor and many of the other students in his classes followed their lead. Jeyne Westerling had been right; by mid-October, it had become normal for him to ignore people and for people to ignore him. No one was offended, and Gendry could keep to himself. It was as things should be.

Professor Tyrion Lannister had been right, too, however. Joffrey had taken the incident personally. He would switch off between shooting glares at him and Elyana Westerling and ignoring them as much as he could. Elyana’s friends, fellow Ravenclaws Dyanna Hightower and Sabitha Runesight, never left her side. Dyanna’s presence provided ample buffer for Elyanna in particular, because she was from one of the older, more prestigious, pure-blood families.

Once the fanfare over Joffrey’s loss of points had died down, Gendry felt like he was able to look up more often as he walked the halls. It was freeing not to focus on trying to avoid making eye contact with others and reading into whatever it was they expected from him. Once the hubbub had died down, he was able to return to watching the paintings as he passed them by. He couldn’t get enough of the paintings. That said, he didn’t think he’d ever truly get used to them. They didn’t just move; they had personalities. They were truly magic.

“The secret?” An older lady taking high tea demanded of him one day. The plaque on her frame read: Aryadne Redwyne. “It’s not tea. I’ve been imbibing in something a bit stronger for years. It makes all the difference.” She winked at him. “Call me Lady Red, everyone does.”

He’d seen glimpses of high tea, of course. Bits and pieces in period shows and movies. But this lady had poured the tea and was choosing her silverware with care, and it all looked so natural to her. To find out that she was spicing up her tea with something else fascinated him even more. Was there an original Aryadne Redwyne, or was this painting the artist’s imagination? If there was an original, did she also spike her tea?

“Well, don’t you ever _talk_?” Gendry felt himself snap out of his reverie. He supposed it was fair for her to get annoyed; she took high tea every Saturday afternoon, and Gendry had tried to casually wander by to watch.

“Er, sorry.” Gendry felt his face heat up, and he hooked a hand behind his neck to try to distract from it.

“Hmmph.” She squinted at him and looked him up and down.

“Don’t I know you? What’s your name?”

“Er, Gendry,” he said.

“You sound like you’re not sure,” she quipped at him. “Gendry _what_?”

“Gendry Waters, Lady Red.”

“Hmm,” she mused, suddenly thoughtful. “You look _so much_ like a student who came before you. Are you of any relation to someone named Renly?”

“No ma’am.” Gendry answered.

“ _Really?_ ” There was a note of incredulity to her voice. “Who’s your father?” Gendry inwardly gave a twitch. It seemed everyone, right down to the _paintings_ , was obsessed with lineages and parentage.

“He’s dead.” Technically, Gendry supposed he didn’t have a clue whether this was true or not, but he wanted to shut this line of questioning down as quickly as possible. His mum, to his admittedly sparse memory, had never made much mention of a father, but he had a gut feeling she held a certain sadness around the subject. As far as he could tell, this meant Gendry’s father was likely dead or else some wanker who might as well be dead.

“Well, you did say Waters...” she mused, taking another sip from her now-questionable teacup. “Who’s your mother?”

“Also dead.” Gendry snapped. “Not that _any_ of this is your business.”

“You’re a surly one, aren’t you?” She simpered daintily. “Well, I see I’ve hit a sore spot. I didn’t mean to, for what it’s worth.” She set her teacup down. To her credit, she seemed to have blunted her sharp attitude in deference to the new information. She almost seemed contrite.

“I truly thought you bore a certain resemblance to a prior student, but one sees so many faces throughout the years,” she sighed. “It’s all the more difficult because some children look exactly as they do when they’re older, with only minor changes, and others suddenly morph an entirely new face when they hit their teens or maybe their twenties.” She fixed another look on Gendry.

“You know, when the lighting is just so, you remind me of Loras’s favorite.”

“Loras?” Gendry asked.

“Loras Tyrell,” she cocked her head shrewdly. “Yes, you look very much like his favorite. Before he hit his growth spurt, of course. Then his face lost its roundness and he hit his growth spurt and shot up and all that.” There was a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth, but Gendry couldn’t be sure. Her expression quickly soured, however, and she lifted her teapot only to find it empty.

“Ah, well,” she sighed. “What’s that saying? Nothing lasts forever...”

* * *

Portraits aside, another aspect of the magical world that piqued Gendry’s interest were the ghosts. They were real. Their existence explained why he had thought he was going mad when he was eight years old, and he’d seen a silvery-grey spectre wandering around the burnt out store near one of his prior foster homes. Now that he could stare without being thought strange by passing muggles, Gendry indulged in his fascination.

Beyond Professor Pycelle, who reportedly still had yet to figure out he was dead, each house had a ghost, though Gendry couldn’t figure out what specific role they played. As far as he could tell, they filled an ephemeral niche of serving as a sort of mascot and providing additional supervision to the students. The ghosts themselves, however, did not seem to interpret their roles the same, or else took them to varying degrees of seriousness.

Ser Artys Arryn would make his rounds along the Gryffindor table. In life, he had been known as The Falcon Knight. In death, he proudly wore his armor, though it now repelled nothing. The sigil of his house, a falcon, soared on his breastplate. Ser Artys had paid special attention to the first years in the early weeks of term, helpfully directing them to classes when they had lost their way.

It seemed everyone appreciated Ser Artys’s upright and charismatic demeanor. He was not always there, as he found it difficult to remain sedentary too long, but he often made a point to check in with students, regardless of house, if he noticed anything amiss.

Ravenclaw’s ghost, who bore the moniker of The Oldstone Lady, was apparently only very present and helpful during the first month or two of term. Far more reserved than Ser Artys, Lady Oldstone would acquiesce to students when asked for directions, by gesturing a hand to point the way. Mostly, she would hover near the back corner of the great hall near the rafters while she surveyed the scene below. Her appearances tapered off dramatically after this, however. Instead, she could often be spotted swirling by the high windows of the atrium in one of the southwestern towers. It was notably the only time or place anyone knew of where she would wear a semblance of a smile.

“She’s dancing with her ghosts,” said the whispers. “Bit ironic, isn’t it?”

“I swear, if she didn’t feel a sense of duty, she’d never leave that hall. They say she never wanted to leave.”

“Hey, that’s part of her song, isn’t it? You haven’t _heard_ it? Well, ‘she never wanted to leave’ is one of the verses, it’s repeated over and over. If we see Hot Pie, I bet you he’d know it...”

Hufflepuff House, if anything, couldn’t seem to get rid of their ghost at first. The Smiling Septon, who indeed seemed far more jovial than any other ghost in the castle, often insisted that he be called Barth. He would cruise up and down the Hufflepuff table, cheerfully apologizing whenever he ran through someone, which was often. He’d offer advice on how to tackle their classes to the first years. If he noticed one of the other house ghosts absent from their posts, he would obligingly fill in for them and remind students not to leave their History of Magic homework too late.

“Septon Barth,” Professor Pommingham eventually managed to corner him one day. “We’re into October, now. It’s time to let them spread their wings a bit.”

“Nonsense,” Septon Barth exclaimed back with a delighted laugh. “One can never be nurtured too much! And do call me Barth.”

“Really, Barth,” Professor Pommingham tried again. “Give them some space. Let them breathe.” She had immediately gasped at her misstep, but it was too late. Septon Barth’s disposition folded, and he looked much more suited to his ghostly status.

“I was poisoned, you know,” he said wistfully. “I just couldn’t catch a full breath. I thought it was my age. But...” he took an experimental breath and grew more depressed. “Well, it was revealed to me that I had been a thorn in the sides of too many. And then...” He got a faraway look and departed, drifting through the wall.

Professor Pommingham had looked a little ashamed.

“Don’t worry, his funks don’t last that long.” Professor Tyrell waved a hand at her. “Besides,” he winked. “The Hufflepuffs will have the room to get a lot more breathing done while he’s moping.”

It was true; the Smiling Septon stayed away for days, eventuallyputting in a cursory appearance for the Halloween Feast before withdrawing again.

Where Lady Oldstone passed through and Ser Artys put in his appearances and even the Smiling Septon Barth maintained a visible presence for a time, the Slytherin ghost often lurked out of sight. He truly haunted.

The Bloodraven, otherwise called Lord Bloodraven, was as silent as Lady Oldstone. Even the Slytherins seemed unnerved by him, often whispering to each other after he was a safe distance away. He cut an imposing path whenever he did appear. The shimmering stain on the side of his face and neck often caused students to avert their eyes.

Was it a bloodstain from some dastardly deed, some wondered? No, came the whispered responses. Lord Bloodraven was a renowned Targaryen bastard with a port-wine stain birthmark in the shape of a raven. He had served as Hand to the King before mysteriously disappearing. Rumors had swirled around his disappearance – what sort of mission could he have undertaken, that would have caused him to tender his resignation as Hand? No answer came, however; only the Bloodraven’s ghost returned, as silent as the grave.

It was Old Nan, often called Nearly Headless Nan, however, who interested Gendry the most. Gendry tried not to look at her too long whenever he saw her, content to spy on her from afar.

No-one knew how old she was when she died, but she was perhaps the oldest looking person, or former person, Gendry could remember ever seeing. Though she was a ghost, it seemed as though she grew older and more decrepit each time he saw her.

He was not alone in his curiosity over her age. Every so often, a student would work up the courage to ask her how old she was when she died, but to no avail.

“It’s useless,” came the mutters. “She never says anything helpful.”

“She just drones on and on about looking for a man and stuff.”

It wasat the end of October, after the Halloween Feast when he, Hot Pie and Lommy found themselves cornered in a side corridor by none other than Nearly Headless Nan. Gendry didn’t know what to make of it. He got to see her up close, which he had wanted. But he was now seeing her up close, which was unnerving.

“It’s getting colder now, isn’t it?” Old Nan asked them, gesturing to their scarves. The weather had indeed turned colder with the shortening days, and students had started wrapping their scarves tighter against the deepening chill.

“Why are you called Nearly Headless Nan?” Lommy blurted out.

She chuckled and creaked.

“There’s no comfort to be had when the darkness truly comes.” She eyed Lommy. “Would you like me to show you?” Without further prompting, she reached a gnarled hand up and gripped a fistful of her tangled, silvery hair. With a tug and a muted squelching sound, her head and upper neck tipped aside.

They were treated to a silvery, messy view of shredded tissues and torn ligaments, framed with loose, jagged skin. Gendry was certain she had died by something other than a sword. Even a blunt blade would have left a cleaner cut. Or a cut at all.

It looked like something had tried to gnaw at her neck. Or maybe pull her head off with blunt force. It seemed her baggy, wizened skin had been able to stretch and a couple of inches held fast. Her neck and head could swing to and fro, hinging on the intact skin, rendering her nearly headless, rather than entirely headless.

“Eugh!” Lommy yelped. Nearly Headless Nan, her head still askew, cackled with glee. She swiped her claw-like hand out, passing through Lommy’s neck at the same angle as her own ruined neck.

“ _The night is dark and full of terrors!_ ” She shrieked.

Hot Pie’s eyes had nearly popped from his head. He, Gendry and Lommy, who was frantically grabbing at his neck, scrambled away, howling. Unfortunately, she blocked their way out, and they hesitated, unsure of themselves and unwilling to give themselves further exposure to the frigid sensation of passing through a ghost.

“You’ve got questions.” Old Nan stated, pulling her head back into place and stuffing some of her extra skin into her collar.

Silence.

“Well,” Gendry trailed. He did have questions. But he’d heard her answers were of some knight, probably a lover who spurned her. Perhaps it was they who killed her, but she had never said as far as anyone knew.

“Yes, yes,” she egged him on. “You mightn’t be satisfied, but I promise I’ll answer true.”

“How old are you? Or, sorry – how old were you?” Gendry asked. Old Nan gave another chuckle, her head slightly crooked.

“That cannot possibly be your question, boy, can it? Go on, there are things you whelps know nothing of, and you shouldn’t be dawdling with such useless questions with even more useless answers.”

“Then when-” he stopped himself. “How did you die?” Gendry tried again. Her wrinkled face twisted with pleasure at his amended question.

“In a cold, dark winter. During a long night.” She appraised him. “I died trying to fight off the loneliness of the dark. The nights were long back then.” She floated closer to them, and the three of them shuffled back.

“The dark hides nothing, Mr. Waters, from those who bother to see. I was blinded and I thought I was alone. So I sought to change that.” She drew closer and they took another step back. “Loneliness can make people do such foolish things. I was no exception.” For the first time, Old Nan took on a less haunting, more haunted, demeanor.

“So you went looking for a man?” Hot Pie tried. Old Nan tilted her head at him, threatening it’s precarious balance.

“I went looking for a knight,” she corrected him. She drew even closer, squinting to look at each of them. Gendry tried to step back, but found they were now backed up against the wall. “One with armor and a sword. I thought they might keep me safe until the dawn.” She frowned, bunching the many wrinkles on her face.

“I thought I could solve the loneliness. I thought I could handle the dark. I had it planned out,” she sighed. “I had brought a flute to bring us comfort, to call for company; to chase away the loneliness. I would find the knight to guard me safe and a cloak to keep me warm.” She stared into some middle distance and straightened her head.

“But I found no cloak and I had no knight. I was alone. With only a flute to call for company.” To their relief, she drifted up and away.

“Seven hells. Can either of you make sense of any of that?” Lommy asked as the three made their escape. They had stumbled away and ducked into a different side corridor. Hot Pie shook his head, eyes still wide.

“Beats me. My money’s on that knight doing her in, though.” He paused and amended his opinion. “Actually, my money’s on him not showing up – did you see her neck? – and some monster getting her-” he never finished.

Hot Pie had leaned against the wall next to a suit of armor. His shoulder had rolled slightly, and he had briefly lost his balance, pushing the suit’s gauntlet askew. With the sound of grinding stone, part of the wall swiveled and Hot Pie fell back, disappearing into the shadows with a yell.

“Hot Pie!” Lommy and Gendry surged forward.

“I’m fine,” Hot Pie grunted as he picked himself up from the floor. “I just fell over – woah.”

They were in what appeared to be a storage room. Upon their entrance, several candles immediately flared to life and illuminated the room. Crates were stacked haphazardly around the room, and sheets covered several pieces of what looked like furniture.

“Why would they turn such a cool secret room into a storage room?” Lommy asked.

“Dunno. What could they need to put in here that needs to be hidden? It can’t be that important if it isn’t protected by anything more than a hidden door.” Hot Pie mused.

The three of them gingerly poked around, lifting the corners of lids to see into some of the open crates. They mostly held old school trophies and broken desks.

Gendry lifted a sheet draped over something tall and narrow, and immediately dropped it.

“What is it?”Lommy asked. The other two moved over to look.

“It’s a mirror,” Lommy said, a little nonplussed. “It’s got a fancy frame, though – wha...” he trailed off.

“What?” Hot Pie asked. “What is it?”

“It’s a magical mirror!” Lommy said excitedly. “It’s showing – well, me. And you and my friends from my last school are there, and we’re all dressed to go to the football match.”

“Let me see,” Hot Pie said, and they switched places. “I don’t know about any football,” he dragged his eyes to Lommy for a quick glance.

“Football sounds like a really boring sport, sorry. But it’s showing my parents and a bunch of customers and me in the back kitchen of The Three Broomsticks. It looks like it’s been expanded, because there’s an extra oven, and I’m about to put my crusts in to half-bake them before I work on the filling. Do you think it’s showing us the future?” Gendry felt a widening pit in his stomach.

“I don’t know,” Lommy frowned in thought. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ you and my muggle friends to meet, but I don’t think it’ll happen. You’d probably slip up and give something away – I know your dad’s a muggle, but let’s face it, you’ve grown up in Westeros your whole life and you’d definitely run your mouth and break the statute of secrecy.”

“Well, I want that extra oven,” Hot Pie was determined. “It’s not impossible that these could be the future, maybe I’ll brush up on my muggle studies and learn to pass as a muggle. What do you see, Gendry?”

Gendry struggled to find words.

“It’s not the future,” Gendry finally said.

“Why? How do you know? Is it showing you when you were a baby or something?”

“Because I’m still my age, but my mum’s with me.” There was a brief pause while Lommy and Hot Pie tried to process this.

“Is she-” Hot Pie began.

“She’s dead.” Gendry knew his reply was short. In different circumstances, he might have cared, but as things were, he couldn’t be bothered. His eyes were still glued to the smiling faces looking out at him. They looked so _happy_. It seemed contradictory. Familiar and foreign. Like a puzzle piece that should have been the perfect fit, but refused to lock in.

“Uh, look,” Lommy tried. “We’re sorry-”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“Well, yeah but-”

“It’s fine. And it’s late. We should probably head back.” But he couldn’t lift his feet.

“Listen mate, if you-”

“We’re not _mates_ ,” Gendry snarled, whipping his head around. He had finally ripped his eyes away from the beaming faces to whirl on them. They jumped and shrank back, startled at his outburst and looking frightened.

“And I don’t need you. You should probably just go.” He turned back to the mirror, where his mum had an arm draped over Gendry’s shoulders.

Gendry vaguely heard the two sets of steps retreat to the secret door. He somewhat registered the grinding noise as the stones reset when they closed the door behind them. These details were background noise to him. Because it was her.

His mum. He didn’t know if this was her face as it truly had been, or if the mirror had simply conjuredup the closest configuration from his piecemeal memories, but it was close enough to recognize her. Or else some part of him refused to acknowledge he might have accepted any female face with the right hair color. It was enough.

Was it enough? It tore at him, but he finally managed to peel himself away and get to his school bag, where he drew out a piece of parchment. In the flickering candlelight, he managed to glance down every so often to keep track of his quill.

Finally, Gendry sat back and compared the parchment to the mirror. He was no great artist, but she had a face, now. And her hair was neater; not tangled and disheveled like in his dreams. It was far better. But it wasn’t enough.

Was it even accurate? He had no way to know.

Gendry would never know, and it ate at him.

Somewhere in the back of Gendry’s mind, a niggling voice was warning him of something. He couldn’t fathom what it might be, though. He packed his school bag and returned to Gryffindor Tower, heedless of the Pink Lady’s disapproving gaze. Lommy and Hot Pie were either asleep or pretending to be, so Gendry changed in the dark and climbed into bed.

* * *

Gendry sailed through a good chunk of November in a daze. He went to classes, did homework, ate, and went to bed. But between classes with enough of a gap, and around his homework and after dinner, he would try to sneak away to the hidden room behind the suit of armor.

One night, Gendry had stuffed his newest attempt at drawing her face into his pocket. He could never seem to get it right. Gendry was slowly realizing it wasn’t his lack of skill in drawing that was the problem. Even if he could create a carbon copy of her on the page, it wouldn’t really look like her.But maybe he wouldn’t need to draw her anymore, if he had this mirror.

“Is your dormitory not up to your standards, Mr. Waters?” Gendry jumped and whirled around.

“Headmaster,” Gendry said, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Tywin Lannister surveyed the scene. A dusty room with a mirror and a boy surrounded by crates and broken furniture.

“I had wondered who was making these visits,” he commented, gesturing to the space on the floor where the dust had been worn away. “I must admit, I had hoped it would not be you, Mr. Waters.” Gendry blinked.

“Why?” A look of contemplation overtook the old wizard’s face. Then the severity returned.

“Do you know what this mirror is, Mr. Waters?” He clasped his hands behind his back. When Gendry didn’t respond, he approached a couple of steps, looking the mirror up and down. “It’s called the Mirror of Erised. It shows us ourselves not as we are, but as we might be when our deepest wishes and wants have been fulfilled.”

Gendry wasn’t aware of it when his attention wandered, so he jumped when he felt a hand land on his shoulder. It turned him to face a pair of startlingly green eyes.

“This mirror cannot give you what you want,” he said. “It is a dangerous artifact. I agreed to keep it here while the ministry sought a new home for it. Do not mistake it for a casual bit of bewitchment.” Gendry grew confused.

“Why is the ministry-”

“I didn’t ask them,” he interrupted sternly. “I am merely doing a favor for the ministry. But, given how this mirror has stolen over a fortnight of your life from you, surely you can guess why?” Tywin Lannister’s green stare drilled into him, as if willing him to figure something out. It felt like a test.

“Someone at the ministry got stuck on it?” Gendry guessed. The headmaster gave a nod, a small flash of approval briefly replaced his appraising stare.

“Great witches and wizards have turned into shells, wasting away before this mirror. It will be moved, soon. The ministry has found a new place for it. I suggest, Mr. Waters, that you do not return here.” He straightened up and began to turn away, but stopped. He vacillated over whether to say something more. Something won out within the headmaster, and he turned back.

“Do not blindly follow in the footsteps of others. They don’t always lead you true.”

“Sir,” Gendry asked. “What does that mean? Who’s footsteps?”

“I’m simply warning you,” came the answer. “Not to mindlessly fill the emptiness inside you. Some holes can be filled; others cannot. If one isn’t careful, they’ll look back one day and realize they’ve wasted their life looking into a void rather than living their life.”

* * *

Keeping away from the mirror was an exercise in restraint over the next few days. One day would be fine. Another would be a struggle. Slowly, however, the fog lifted, and Gendry found himself nearing the end of November. The headmaster’s words rattled around in his head. Don’t mindlessly fill the emptiness inside. Did that mean one needed to simply exist with it? Live with it? Gods, did no one ever give a straight answer?

Hot Pie and Lommy had given him a wide berth since the night when they discovered the mirror. Functionally, he was glad for it. But on another level he felt a twinge of guilt. No, they weren’t friends, but neither had they deserved it when he lashed out. He could almost hear Tobho and Elinor’s analysis, had they been there.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Tobho might say. “People have feelings and feelings are complicated and unpredictable. So, people are complicated and unpredictable. They’ll know it wasn’t meant against them.”

“It’s quite an ice breaker,” Elinor might joke. She liked to try and lighten the mood whenever Gendry lashed out. “It just goes to show you shouldn’t bottle things up. Maybe you should take those second year boys up on that Quidditch try out offer. It sounds like it could be right up your alley.”

Gendry stabbed a potato. He was pretty sure Tobho and Elinor’s advice would line up with his imaginary version of them.

“… Been extra angry and morose, even for him. Does he even talk in sentences?” He vaguely overheard. On instinct, his head came up and he made eye contact with Orina Spyre, one of their fellow Gryffindor first years. Her face immediately flushed and she stopped talking, confirming Gendry had been her topic of discussion. He ducked his head back down and stared at his pumpkin juice.

On the one hand, he was upset that people bothered to talk about him without bothering to be stealthy about it. On the other, Orina’s comment proved that Lommy and Hot Pie hadn’t gone spreading what they’d learned all around the house and school. It turned out they weren’t total dickheads, which was somewhat comforting to know.

It now seemed that entire section of the Gryffindor table, largely first and second years, were frozen with tension. A couple of third years glanced their way and continued their conversations. A drawn out silence stretched, until Eddison Tollett, the second year who was normally a downer, cleared his throat.

“So, I know we lost against Slytherin, but a lot of their team is made up of fourth and fifth years. It’ll be tough going for a while, they’ve got a lot more experience than us.” No one answered Edd’s obvious and painful attempt to restart conversation.

“That is,” Edd continued to try. “Unless we manage to come up with a good set of strategies … and game plans...” He trailed, gave up and went silent.

All around them, the rest of the Gryffindor table and the dining hall was filled with the bustling and sounds of eating, cutlery and chatter. Such a relaxed atmosphere couldn’t penetrate their bubble.

Gendry stood and started to turn away from the table. But something stopped him. Looking up, he found everyone who had been in earshot staring at him. Hot Pie and Lommy looked particularly on edge, probably fearful of another outburst. He felt another twinge of guilt at his reaction that night. As for Orina… he knew he hadn’t exactly been open, but that didn’t mean Orina had to spend her time picking him apart. Didn’t she have anything better to do?

What had she said? She’d implied he never spoke in sentences? A sudden sense of determination to prove Orina wrong rose.

“Orina,” Gendry started.

“Yeah?” She squeaked.

Bollocks.

He didn’t actually have anything specific to say to her, but now everyone was staring at him, so he couldn’t very well walk away.

Quick. He needed to think of something.

His eyes fell on the copy of The Daily Prophet by her elbow.

“Are you done reading that?”

Stupid. Awful. He didn’t even know if it was hers. She looked down at it in confusion.

Bollocks again; it probably wasn’t.

Luckily for everyone, Beric took over the tortuous exchange by snatching it up and proffering it to Gendry. Briefly, Gendry considered saying ‘thanks.’ But should he say it to Orina, who had sourced the paper, or Beric, who had actually given it to him? He’d already botched things, though, so he closed his mouth, accepted the paper and turned away.

Once out of the great hall, Gendry stepped into the first side hall he came to and slid down behind a statue of a wizard holding a crystal ball with a squirrel on his shoulder. He didn’t have the gall to go spend the rest of the evening in the common room, nor did he want to mope in his dorm. So there he sat, moping in a darkened corridor.

He blew his cheeks out.

“Did you read the headline this morning?”

Gendry froze, realizing he was in the side hall that led to the doors behind the high table to the great hall. Crouched in the shadow behind a statue, which was just outside a smaller antechamber for faculty. Listening to Professor Tyrion Lannister talking to…

“I did, what of it?” Deputy Headmaster Loras Tyrell, and Gendry’s head of house.

“Nothing much,” Tyrion said. “I’m just pleased that Stannis’s ploy to get that damn mirror away from the minister worked. It took about three months longer than it should have, but he’s finally managed to find a replacement for old Arryn.”

“Yes, it was quite the boon. Word is he’s suddenly found a new drive for work.”

“Please, Loras. I know you like to pretend at being an empty-headed pretty boy, but we both know your grandmother taught you to be crafty when you want to be. Tell me, was it your idea? Did you put Stannis up to filing to have the mirror confiscated?” A sigh came from Professor Tyrell.

“It seemed to be the only way to get him to get a move on and find a permanent replacement for Arryn. Not that Stannis isn’t a good Acting Department Head, but he’s been straddling two positions. It’s doubled the number of people who he has to supervise and work with...”

“Which doubles the misery everyone feels.” Tyrion chuckled.

“Yes, well. As acting head, it was well within Stannis’s means to temporarily categorize it as an object under suspicion of dark bewitchment and have it removed. All he had to do was delay having the paper trail found, and it bought Stannis time to get Robert to find a new magical law enforcement head.” Tyrion snickered.

“What?”

“And you got to sit pretty while Stannis likely took abuse from Robert for taking away his precious winter rose. Lady Olenna must be proud.”

“She is,” Professor Tyrell sniffed.

“What do you think of the minister’s choice?”

“I think it’s an obvious one.”

“Come on, you must have some opinion on how he managed it.” Another beleaguered sigh came from Professor Tyrell.

“What is it you’re asking?”

“Last I heard – last anyone heard, the honorable Ned Stark was swearing off the possibility of ever returning. He needs to _spend time with family_. Northerners can be ever so dramatic. He’s locked himself in some frozen tundra he calls a home for the past, what? Six, seven years? Hasn’t strayed farther south than Moat Cailin. He even refuses to send his children to his old alma mater.” There was the sound of a chair creaking as someone leaned forward in their seat.

“Between you and me, the headmaster was terribly disappointed that he’s not been sending his kids here. They’ve got six kids! Six! Six potential students who could pay the full tuition. But old Ned Stark had decided to hide them all away for some reason. The eldest Stark boys, those twins – Robb and Jon? – They’re said to be promising students; how could they not be, with Professor Luwin to teach them? And one of the young boys, Brandon? Bran? Apparently he’s some sort of child genius or prodigy. My father’s particularly sore at losing out on him. He’s even hired them a dueling master-”

“Is this going anywhere?” Loras was sounding decidedly bored.

“Yes, yes. Anyway, Ned locks himself away and builds up an isolated little world for himself. And dear old Robert comes calling because old Arryn is dead and he drops that ‘spending time with family’ trope and comes back.”

“I still haven’t heard a question.”

“My question,” Tyrion finally relented. There was the sound of a goblet being filled. “Is whether you know why Ned Stark agreed to come back.”

“Why would I know that? You forget, I’m not bosom buddies with either of them.” There was a mild strain in Professor Tyrell’s voice.

“But you were bosom buddies with both of their younger brothers-” The sharp sound of a goblet being set down on a table echoed.

“Neither of whom I’ve seen in years.” It seemed first years were not alone in being subjected to awkward silences. Tyrion, however, was vastly more adept at navigating them. He plowed on after a moment, unfazed.

“He’ll have had to introduce himself to the muggle Prime Minister today. Imagine how _that_ must have gone”

“I’ve had other things to attend to today. Teaching. Grading. Perhaps you’re familiar with the concept.”

“You know, for a Tyrell, I really would have thought you’d be more invested in Westeros’s image.”

“Westeros’s image, for whom?”

“For the UK. Imagine you’re the muggle PM. I think his name is Buckland or something. You’re new in office. You country is a mess with the breakdown of some international economic arrangement. The whole muggle world is heaving with one thing or another.

“Then, in walks a great fat wizard and a great old wizard. They tell you about a magical world called Westeros. And it’s been coinciding, hidden, with your country for centuries – millennia! You never see the fat one again, and then the old one up and dies. You may or may not have been told it was murder. And then in walks… Eddard Stark.

“He’s a bore, he’s a downer, he’s a hermit … And even on the sunniest of days, he perpetually looks like he’s just been ordered to kill his own dog.”

“… It’s not a great look,” Professor Tyrell agreed after a pause. Tyrion snorted. “But I don’t see what harm he could do.”

“Oh, Loras, Loras, Loras.” It sounded as though Tyrion had buried his head in his hands. The joking tone to his voice had gone. “I’m not saying he’ll actively make things worse. But he and Robert are fighters. Stark, at _best_ , is an adequate administrator. But they’re not politicians, they’re not diplomats. Not the ones we need, anyway.”

“Need? Have you forgotten the statute of secrecy? What politics are we playing with the muggles?”

“The wyverns have had years’ of practice operating under the radar. They’ve been growing more active recently, and there’s a reason for that. They’re going to blindside Westeros with something.”

“Something?” Professor Tyrell sounded dubious. “That’s a little vague.”

“I _know_ that, but that’s the _point_ , isn’t it? You and I are sitting here. Neither of us work in the ministry and yet we’ve got a pretty good idea of what’s going on with the minister and his right hand man. The wyverns will have their own sources in the ministry. That place has always been like a sieve as far as secrecy.

“My point, Loras, is that the wyverns have been building up to something. Given their opinions towards the muggle UK, I doubt it’ll be good for them. Hence, the need for politicians, diplomats. People who can be _likable_. Someone _relatable_ who can put muggles at ease. Does that sound like either Robert Baratheon or Ned Stark to you?”

Pause.

“The minister can be,” Loras searched for the right word. “A bit abrasive,” Tyrion snorted again. “ _But_ , Ned is trustworthy. He’s temperate. Admittedly, he’s … rough around the edges.”

“He’s downright cold and morose is what he is.” A goblet was set down on a table. “All I’m saying is that Robert wouldn’t know what stealth is if it hit him in the face while flashing a pair of tits at him. And Ned Stark is said to be a lot of things, but calculating isn’t one of them; he wouldn’t know how to outmaneuver someone if his life depended on it. Unfortunately for him, I think it may.”

“He can take care of himself.”

“Under the right conditions, I’m sure he could. He’s said to be a master dueler – I wouldn’t know, few people have ever seen him duel. But the Starks have a nasty habit of being too straightforward for their own good. Rickard and Brandon Stark were both said to be incredible wizards. And they both blundered to their deaths.” A pause while Tyrion took a sip from his goblet. “Some battles can’t be won with wands.”

That night, after Gendry had worked up the courage to shift up from the floor and sneak away, he lay in bed, head spinning.

Everything that had happened since he’d discovered magic had felt like a dream. Now, it felt like the dream was fracturing, with a complicated web behind the curtain.

Of course it made sense there would be politics and infighting within Westeros. That was the way of things in London, in England, and in every other place in the world. But there was still a disconnected feeling. Everyone who had explained Robert’s Rebellion to Gendry had made it sound like it was such a long time ago, and it was over and done with. They spoke of it the way muggles explained the second world war or some far off battle.

Hearing Professor Lannister and Tyrell talk, Gendry wasn’t so sure, anymore. They made it sound like it was on hiatus more than anything.


	7. Mothers and Musings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry reads troubling news and receives a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: It looks like some real-life stuff is coming up for me soon, so chapter eight may or may not come next week. Since this is the second time I anticipate a delay and I’m only a few chapters in, I may switch to bi-weekly updates.

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

“ _He’s not here!” Another burst of light hit her, and she suddenly relaxed with a sigh._

“ _It can stay this way,” another voice coaxed. “Just tell us where, and you can keep feeling this way.”_

“ _He’s not here. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s-” she gulped. “He’s not here.” Her words began to run together as her head lolled to one side, tugging a curtain of her hair into a new pattern. Like a painter brushing new strokes over the same canvas._

_Another, familiar burst of light hit her, and the screaming, the crying, the convulsing started anew. New brush strokes. Gendry tried squeezing his eyes closed again, again, again. He had to focus. Mum had told him to run. To hide. He was hidden, but he had not run._

_They were by the door. They were upstairs. Mostly, they were in the living room. They were faced away from him, and some higher functioning part of him knew he would soon miss his chance. He never questioned that his mother would be alright. Mum always said she’d be alright._

_Gendry eased the cupboard door open. Stepping out, his feet immediately began tingling after being cramped for however long he’d been curled inside. He felt a sudden cool breeze ruffle the back of his neck and he remembered the kitchen window was open behind him. He just needed to get up onto the counter and he could drop out of the window into the garden outside._

_Clambering up onto the counter top, he froze when he sensed a change in the living room. Mum was sighing from relief again. She giggled._

_Gendry eased the window up so he could fit through, fixing his eyes on the figures in the living room. His eyes slid down and he stilled at what he saw._

_Through the legs of the figures standing over her, Mum was smiling at him. This was a real smile. With the presence of happiness, of relief, rather than the absence of pain._

Gendry jerked awake, gasping. Aside from his own uneven breaths, the room was silent. It was December now, and the room had grown chilly in the night. Looking around, he could see Hot Pie and Lommy lying still in their beds. They were a bit too still. Which meant he had woken them up, but they were politely trying to pretend he hadn’t.

It wasn’t altogether unusual for their dorm. He and Lommy had been woken up often enough by Hot Pie talking in his dreams. Lommy had had the occasional nightmare as well. Gendry didn’t keep a tally or anything, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that his nightmares were a bit more frequent and disruptive than theirs on average. Though he wasn’t exactly proud of it, he didn’t see what he could do about it.

Gendry stumbled from bed, trying to bring his breathing back down. He hadn’t had that dream in a while. He had not gotten that far, either. Sitting at his desk, he pulled a fresh piece of parchment and settled into his ritual of drawing out the silhouette of his mum’s hair. Her face was still a bit shaded and undefined, but held more detail than he’d ever managed before the Mirror of Erised.

He had done his best not to think about the ramifications of that mirror. Headmaster Lannister had warned him from returning to the room with the mirror, and he had complied. Professors Tyrion and Tyrell had revealed later on that the mirror’s very presence was due to it’s negative impacts on the Minister of Magic, himself. And he had blundered right into it. Had started visiting it at every opportunity. Dropping the new sketch into his drawer, he crossed back to his bed and climbed back in.

* * *

One good thing that had come of his not-quite-confrontation with Orina Spyre was her copy of The Daily Prophet. With nothing else to do the following afternoon, he had read that copy, paying special attention to the article regarding the minister’s right hand man, Ned Stark. The moving picture showed a ruddy-faced and bearded fat wizard shaking hands and waving next to a long-faced wizard. Per Tyrion’s description, he did indeed look like a downer.

Since then, Gendry had started reading the Daily Prophet with some regularity. It seemed The Daily Prophet had an invested interest in fostering a client base early on. Therefore, they sent several copies to Hogwarts free of charge for student consumption.Gendry tended to skim through articles he had no hope of understanding because they dealt with topics he had no knowledge of, and read more closely the articles that were more accessible to someone new to Westeros.

That morning, the headline read:

**Gruesome Discovery: Enid Welsh Identified**

The image showed several hit wizards holding the public at bay, while robed investigators shuffled around by the doorway of a flat.

Gendry read on:

_The body of a witch was discovered two nights ago in a flat that lies off Raven Row in King’s Landing. Hit Wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement declared the death to be “mysterious” and have since brought ministry investigators in on the case._

_Newly appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Eddard “Ned” Stark was tight-lipped regarding developments in the case early on, citing a need to move the investigation forward “with deliberation.”_

_The victim has now been identified as Enid Welsh, a twenty-four-year-old witch, hailing from Cobbler’s Square, King’s Landing. She was employed at The Croaking Hall, a tavern near Raven Row. Further details are sparse, as the investigation is still early and ongoing._

* * *

It seemed the month of December was destined to be a stressful one for Mr. Stark, because it was only a week or so later when the front page of the Prophet was filled with images of his serious face next to another, similar looking face.

**B** **enjen Stark Missing:** **Stark Family** **at a Loss for Answers**

_Benjen Stark, the younger brother of Eddard “Ned” Stark, has been officially declared missing. Stark is a celebrated Auror. For the last several years, Stark has been assigned to the Department of International Magical Cooperation as a “Ranger,” an Auror who specializes in tracking dark or wanted wizards over long distances and over long periods of time._

_Stark had recently returned to Westeros after an extended assignment abroad. Benjen Stark has long been lauded as one of the department’s most dedicated, having completed more long-term assignments abroad than any other._

_Older brother, and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ned Stark officially filed Benjen Stark as missing yesterday afternoon. He was last seen by his family in Winterfell, the Stark ancestral home, last week. Reportedly, he was due back at Winterfell early this week, but has not made contact with any family or known friends since._

“ _Benjen has always valued letting his family know of his plans when he is in Westeros between assignments,” Sister-in-law to Benjen Stark, Catelyn Stark stated. “For him to not turn up is unusual; for him to not send word of a delay is very unlike him.” This uncharacteristic silence is what prompted Ned Stark to file a missing persons report on his brother, public ministry documents show._

* * *

The winter holiday was nearly upon them and the weather had finally given Hogwarts a reprieve to boot. For weeks, students had awoken to overcast days of dreary downpours of rain. Now solidly in December, students awoken two days prior to a layer of snow blanketing the castle and school grounds. Now, a steady helping of snow had added to it and this morning granted students and staff to a bright, sunny day, blindingly white.

As soon as classes were out that day, students had taken to the castle grounds, eager to make the most of the sun and snow. Some had vainly decided to bring their books and homework with them to try their hand at studying, only to abandon the effort. They trekked paths through the snow while some had taken to setting up a snowball fight; still others tried their hand at rolling snowmen, wrapping house scarves around their necks.

Gendry had followed another group of students to the lake. They had gone off, perhaps trying to see how far around the lake they would get before turning back for dinner. He fell back, brushed off his preferred boulder and perched on it. His mop of thick black hair could have used a hair cut, and his gangly limbs had grown some over the last few months, but his robes were not yet too short. Then again, perhaps the sleeves were a bit short at the wrists.

The dusted castle and snowy grounds were truly a sight. Fabia sought him out and they sat on the boulder together. After a few minutes, she tucked her head under her wing and snoozed while Gendry tried to warm his fingers under his arms. His last class had been the flying class, and his hands were bright red and achy from the cold. With Fabia’s warm feathers at his elbow, he had started to laze into a sleepy state when the magically-enhanced voice of his house head, Professor Loras Tyrell, boomed out across the castle grounds, startling everyone.

“WILL GENDRY WATERS PROCEED TO THE GRYFFINDOR HEAD’S OFFICE. GENDRY WATERS, PLEASE PROCEED TO MY OFFICE. THANK YOU.”

A few of the students who were scattered on the lawn shouted typical ribbing as he picked up his book back and headed back.

“Some-body’s i-n tro-uble!” Came one singsong voice.

“Ooh, what’s he done!?”

“You’re in trouble!”

Gendry ignored the cackles and continued in. He knew it was largely in good fun, but he couldn’t stop feeling singled out. He couldn’t tell if it was because feeling singled out was common, or whether he truly was the odd one out in some way.

Gendry braced himself and knocked on Professor Tyrell’s office door.

“Ah,” Loras Tyrell opened the door. “Mr. Waters, thank you for coming so quickly. Please, come in.”

Professor Tyrell’s office was often in some state of minor disarray, and today was no different. The bookshelves were mostly neat and orderly with the exception of one shelf. One shelf had empty space where some of the texts had been pulled out, opened, and spread out onto his desk, revealing additional pages of notes stuck in between the pages. Standing beside the desk, was a grave-faced wizard. He was dressed in well-made dark robes and turned to face Gendry when he entered.

Once Professor Tyrell had closed the door to the office behind Gendry, he switched to speaking to the serious wizard. He was oddly familiar.

“Here he is. Gendry Waters.”

Evidently, he was a man comfortable with stretches of silence, because he took his time looking Gendry up and down. Flinty grey eyes swept up and down him, flicked from shoulder to shoulder, took in the mess of hair and finally settled on Gendry’s face.

“He looks as though he’s growing to be tall,” the man said at last. “And broad too, by the looks of him.”

“He’s growing like a weed.” Professor Tyrell agreed, still not making any move to introduce them. Luckily, the mystery wizard dispensed with discussing Gendry as an absent party and reached out to shake hands with a firm but gentle grip.

“My name is Ned Stark. I apologize for calling you indoors on a day like this, Mr. Waters. I’m sure we’re depriving you of some much-needed sun.” Gendry’s mind clicked with the connection. A black and white, slightly smudged, image of a long-faced looking man was different from seeing him in the flesh. Still, Gendry mentally kicked himself for not realizing sooner.

“That’s alright, sir.” Gendry said, lacking anything more eloquent.

“I saw you playing Quidditch during your flying lesson today,” Stark commented, gesturing a hand towards Professor Tyrell’s office window, which overlooked the Quidditch pitch. “You’re quite good. Are you planning on trying out for the team next year?” Gendry fought the urge to shrug. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the small talk was simply an ice breaker for a topic that held far more significance than whether Gendry wanted to join the school team.

“I don’t know, sir. I guess I’d need a broom for that.” It felt like a safely noncommittal answer. It was true, too. The school brooms were mainly for educational purposes and most were so old and battered that they’d barely keep up with a try out, never mind a game. For a muggleborn in the foster system like him, a good broom was prohibitively expensive, even with the ministry’s allowance.

But Stark was nodding along, absently stroking his well-groomed beard. He wasn’t an old man by any means; he was likely rather young, actually. He couldn’t have been past his mid-thirties, but gray had already started to tinge the sides of his beard and the edges of his hair. He carried an air of exhaustion. The worry lines of his face were engaged in thought.

“So you would,” he mused. “You would, indeed.” He shot a look over to Professor Tyrell, who languidly watched them. “Please, take a seat.” Stark gestured to one of the chairs that sat in front of Professor Tyrell’s desk. Gendry sank down, more nervous than ever.

“Sir, erm, did I do something? Is there some sort of trouble?” Gendry asked. Stark shook his head, now looking pensive.

“No, not at all. In fact, I’ve heard you’re already making a name for yourself.” He briefly stopped short, puzzling over something he’d said. “Your teachers are quite impressed.” Stark sat in the remaining chair.

“Mr. Waters,” he began again. “I’m going to ask something of you that might seem odd. I would like you to tell me about your father.” Gendry blinked.

“I never knew him, sir.” Stark frowned and shot a look over to Tyrell but didn’t dwell on it.

“And your mother?” Despite himself, Gendry shrugged.

“What about her? She’s dead.” Again, Stark sent a look to Tyrell before pressing on.

“What do you know of her?” Gendry shrugged again.

“She was my mother. She died when I was five.” And yet again, Stark looked over to Tyrell. There was a measure of disdain, now.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Decisions were made, Ned.” Professor Tyrell kept his voice light.

“Decisions can be changed.”

“Sirs?” Gendry asked. “Why do people keep asking me about my parents?” A beat passed.

“What do you mean ‘people keep asking’ you?”

“I mean, people keep showing up and asking me about my parents. Some wizard came round this last summer. He asked all the same questions you did. I’m muggleborn, so he weirded us all out, because he was dressed in wizard’s robes. And then again, a bit before I started at Hogwarts. Another wizard came round and asked me what I knew about my parents.”

“Did they tell you their names?” Stark asked.

“Well, the first one was an older wizard. He said his name was Jon Arryn. And the second one said his name was Stannis Baratheon.” Professor Tyrell winced while Mr. Stark’s eyes narrowed.

“Again, Loras. What is the meaning of this?”

“Mr. Waters,” Professor Tyrell addressed Gendry. “Would you please wait outside? It seems we have matters to discuss in private.” As Gendry reluctantly stood and moved to the door, Stark was setting and resetting his jaw.

Following a gesture from Professor Tyrell, Eddard Stark had gotten up to follow Gendry to the door and he closed it. With the door closed, Gendry unabashedly pressed his ear to the crack of the door.

“Well?” Stark prompted. “Why does he know nothing?”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Ned. It’s for his safety.”

“Is it?”

“You were the one who led that investigation, don’t act like you don’t remember how _that_ all turned out.”

“It seems I _didn’t_ know how it all turned out. I’ve been learning more and more that that investigation was left woefully incomplete, given where we are today and why I’m being blindsided.”

“You saw what happened to his mother.”

“ _Yes_ , I did.” Stark snapped. “And now we’ve seen what happened to Waymar Royce and Jon Arryn since then, so this little arrangement has proven ineffective. And now I’ve discovered that Stannis has been poking around. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Actually, it was Stannis who went poking about once Arryn was killed. He stumbled upon our Mr. Waters quite by accident, much like you. He came by here earlier in the term to ask me about him. Therefore, I’d say the arrangement was quite effective, given how he’s still hidden.” There was a sigh.

“Are you truly this obtuse, Loras? Royce went looking. Near as I can tell, he found what he was looking for. And if Arryn was looking into frog, then he won’t be the only one. Arryn unearthed another, stone one, too.”

“Give over, Ned. You’re making rather a big fuss over this-”

“Royce stumbled into this. Arryn stumbled into this. You say that Stannis was curious about Arryn and stumbled into this. I stumbled into this; do you not think others could find him, whether they knew what they were looking for or not?”

“From what I know, Arryn wanted him and any others to be looked after. Stannis sees the value in him. And it’s what you want, too.”

“Which means he’s got people in his corner. So why not give him the dignity of knowing?”

“It was for his safety.”

“That ship has sailed. Arryn found him. He won’t be the only one to look, and he isn’t the only one to find him. Besides,” Stark heaved another sigh. “He’s already missed out on too much. If we can’t help him make up for lost time, we can at least arm him with knowledge so he might be prepared for whatever comes.”

“The goal is to avoid that.”

“If you think there’s a chance in any of the hells of putting that cat back in the bag, you’re more naive than I thought. Winter is coming. Even the Minister of Magic knows it. Do you know what he said to me? That a war is coming. He doesn’t know when or who, but it’s coming.”

“Do you hear yourself? That’s the most vague prediction I think I’ve ever heard. ‘ _Winter is Coming_ ,’ _‘War is coming.’_ ” Tyrell chuffed a derisive laugh. “Some war between some people; there’s always one of those brewing. Just like your precious winter. It’s here, by the way. Look out the window. Next you’ll be warning me that if I overeat I’ll be in danger of feeling full.”

“He’s in no greater danger if he knows. And it’s his life. Not ours. So it’s neither Stannis’s decision, nor yours, nor mine. He should get to decide.”

“He’s a child, Ned!” Professor Tyrell finally lost his composure. “He’s innocent. You would take that away?”

“Is this about what’s best for the boy?” Stark’s voice grew soft, and Gendry pressed his ear closer to the crack. “Or is this about what happened? Who he looks like?” Silence stretched. Stark sighed again.

“I won’t say anything to him for now. But if not him, then there’s another person in the mix who deserves to be in the loop. If anything, he’d be just about the only one with a true standing for what should happen.”

“I won’t stop you.” Professor Tyrell relented. He sounded hoarse.

“I’ll need to be somewhat delicate. I’ll have to take it up with Stannis first and figure out what else has been going on, given his involvement. Knowing Stannis, that’ll take some time. In the meantime, if he needs anything, come to me.” There was a shuffling inside the office. “A broomstick might be in order. Perhaps a beater’s bat, too.”

Gendry scrambled away from the door and collapsed onto the bench along the corridor.

“Ah, Mr. Waters.” Professor Tyrell’s voice had recovered, and he now stood at the doorway flashing an easy smile. “Sorry we kept you so long. Well, it seems Mr. Stark here has asked you all the questions he had, so you’re good to go.”

“Mr. Waters?” The bearded man turned to him.

“Yes, Mr. Stark?”

“It’s been such a long time since I was here last. Would you mind showing me the way?”

“Ned,” Professor Tyrell warned. But Stark’s grave affect remained unchanged. He held Professor Tyrell’s gaze without flinching.

“I keep my word, Loras.”

The two set off towards the entrance hall, still several floors down. They walked in silence for a bit. Gendry ran through a series of questions he had in his mind, and wondered how to best ask them. After everything he’d heard, he needed to tread carefully. It was the mysterious Mr. Stark who broke the silence.

“You heard everything in there, I presume?” Gendry felt his face redden, but Eddard Stark’s expression showed just a glimmer of amusement. Or perhaps approval? It was difficult to tell. Stark nodded, seemingly satisfied. Gendry’s curiosity burned through what little discipline he had left.

“What was all that about? Why do people keep asking about my parents? Is it because I’m a muggleborn? But, I haven’t heard of any other muggleborns being asked about their parents. Is this about my parents? Do you know who they were? Who were they?” He trailed off when he noticed Stark was making no move to interrupt the stream of questions.

“How much do you know about Robert’s Rebellion?” The question threw Gendry.

Yoren, the Hogwarts groundskeeper, had been the one to properly introduce Gendry to the wizarding world. He had shown up perhaps a week after that Baratheon man had come round. Gendry had asked him about the other two, but Yoren had neither questions about his parents nor any answers as to why anyone would come looking for him. He had just gotten on with his job, informing muggleborn students of their enrollment at Hogwarts. It had been Yoren who had filled him in on the basics of Robert’s Rebellion.

“Yoren, the groundskeeper here, told me about it.”

“Yoren is a good man.” Mr. Stark noted. Then he sighed. He seemed to do that a lot. “What you have to understand is that when a war ends, it doesn’t really end. Not on the date printed in a textbook, anyway. Hard feelings remain. And with Robert’s Rebellion, there have always been rumors that the Dragon Lord never really died. Even if he did, there are those who would never let the fight die.”

“But what does that have to do with me?” Infuriatingly, Stark shook his head.

“It isn’t my place to tell you everything.”

Gendry felt a hot fury well up inside him. From Jon Arryn, to Stannis Baratheon, to Professor Tyrell and now Ned Stark; they all asked and asked questions of him and then refused to answer even the most basic of questions for Gendry.

“Why do people want to know about my parents? Is it because I’m an orphan?”

Mr. Stark hesitated, and a haunted look came over him.

“Not exactly.”

They had reached the entrance hall. Gendry felt Mr. Stark’s hand hook Gendry’s elbow and he ducked them into a small side corridor that had been hidden in the shadows between one of the staircases and a pedestal that held a small statue of a grinning grindylow.

“Gendry.” Eddard Stark’s hands gripped Gendry’s shoulders and he found himself looking up into the older wizard’s face. If he had thought the wizard looked grave and prematurely aged before, he certainly looked ancient, now.

“It isn’t my place to tell you everything,” he repeated. “But dark forces are afoot. I have a bad feeling that the truth will out. Probably sooner than what we’ll be ready for.”

“What does that mean-?” Gendry asked, but Stark’s grip on his shoulders tightened.

“ _Listen!_ I may disagree with certain details being kept from you, but secrecy _is your friend_. I am telling you that something dark is coming. Royce, a man you never met, was looking into an old case and he died for it. Jon Arryn, that man who came to see you, is dead. He was murdered soon after he made his house call to you. He was a great wizard, and a powerful one.

“Now, I hope I don’t have to tell you that you need to keep everything you know to yourself. And you need to be prepared.

“Yoren is a man you can trust. He will help you. I’ve seen your grades so far; you have a bright mind. Use this time to prepare. Study hard. Do you understand?”

Aside from the wizard’s clear sense of worry and danger, Gendry understood nothing. He found himself nodding, however, and felt the grip on his shoulders loosen. Mr. Stark furtively peeked around the grindylow statue and checked that the coast was clear. Guiding them back out into the open, Mr. Stark released his hold on Gendry and he strode on ahead without a backwards glance.

* * *

The food was always excellent, and always plentiful. Elinor had always said he was a bottomless pit. Gendry had been famished after a long day of classes, flying and snow. And the visit from Ned Stark. He piled food onto his plate and set to work demolishing it. Making himself slow down some, he waited a bit and helped himself to seconds.

He didn’t know what it was that shifted his focus to the past. If he had to guess, it was one of the Gryffindor girls, Jeyne Heddle, a third year. She was sat across the table and a couple of seats down the way. She had tossed her hair over her shoulder and her long, glossy hair had caught the light. It shone bright in the light. Like his mother’s.

Gendry could swear he remembered his mother. The way she had been before. Even after all this time. Even if he had never seen the Mirror of Erised. He inwardly raged at the dichotomy between his inability to define the lines of her face in his mind, and his sense of certainty that he’d recognize her face, her voice and her mannerisms anywhere. Growing up, he repeatedly tried to draw her face. The result was inevitably some sketches that he kept next to a pile of crumpled paper after he’d given up, lamenting his inability to draw; his inability to _remember_.

Then, with that mirror. He now had a stack of unfinished faces back in London with the Motts, and a small stack of filled in faces in his dormitory in Gryffindor Tower. And no matter how many drawings he did, he had no idea if he was getting closer to her likeness, or if it had always been a lost cause.

Cognitive dissonance was something Gendry had had explained to him a number of times. His aging foster parents, Tobho and Elinor, had sat him down often enough to tell him about it. They wanted him to know they loved him without end and without condition. To be fair to them, they’d always been consistent about it. Gendry had never seen anything that pointed to the contrary.

They loved him when he threw tantrums and when he apologized and tried to be good. They loved him when he tried to test the bounds of their love by breaking rules and being difficult. They loved him even when he had told them he hated them. They had told him there was nothing to forgive when he tried to apologize for that.

All available evidence pointed to Gendry growing up loved.

Gendry stared down his fork, ignoring the occasional glance sent to him by his fellow housemates. He was glad when he had looked up to earlier find himself seated across from Eddison Tollett, aptly known as Dolorous Edd. He knew he should have probably made more of an effort to make friends at the start of the year. Or be friendly. By the time it occurred to him that his chance was slipping away, however, it was when he was getting tongue-tied over Orina Spyre’s copy of The Daily Prophet. It definitely felt too late to start now since it was December. He was officially a loner, now.

Why Gryffindor? His sorting had taken an age and a half and, since his name was near to last on the list, it had held up the welcoming feast. He’d overheard some of his housemates’ idle speculation.

Maybe the sorting hat had put him in Gryffindor because it was the smallest house for their year. Hogwarts had had low enrollment for years, after all.

As it was, Gryffindor’s first years consisted of only three girls and three boys. Gendry hadn’t known Lommond “Lommy” Greenhands or Hragethnorot “Hot Pie” Pniewski long, but he already knew he didn’t care to know them any more than he already did. They were the sort who, if you gave an inch, they’d take a mile and before you knew it, they’d expect you to want to do everything together. It was best to just keep his head down and get on with it.

Maybe the hat had sorted him into Gryffindor because he simply wasn’t enough of whatever characteristic for any of the other houses. He hadn’t demonstrated any particular bravery or nerve thus far. Despite what gossip still lingered, all he’d said to Joffrey was the bare minimum in order to end things so he could move on. That, and between going to classes, eating, doing homework and going to bed, there weren’t many opportunities to show distinction in something courageous or chivalrous.

He certainly wouldn’t have made a good fit for Slytherin. Other than to make good on the opportunity he’d been given at Hogwarts, he had no particular ambition and he actively avoided leadership. Ravenclaw’s house head, Professor Missandei Nudho had been giving him knowing looks of approval in class and he couldn’t figure out whether he was pleased about it, or just confused. It was just charms.

The only house he would have chosen for himself, based on description alone, would have been Hufflepuff. Even the sorting hat had made clear how well he would have fit in there.If the Motts had tried to teach him anything, it was the values of Hufflepuff. Tobho had started Gendry out in the shop early on, both as a way to keep an eye on him, and to teach him patience and the value of work.

“ _I’ve been waiting for you,_ ” that sly voice had mused. “ _It seems as though it’s time, hmm? … It makes my job so much more_ _ **interesting**_ _when I find a mind like yours._ ”

Gendry continued to glare at his fork.

“ _I wondered when I might meet you,_ ” it had said. It had teased him. What had it meant by warning him of the footsteps before him?

Even after the secretive, cryptic, teasing exchange, the hat had gone through a convoluted process to sort him.Then it had seemingly taunted him with his nightmare, the night he survived … something. It had alluded to his fitting in with Slytherin, in light of his dream. Even months later, merely thinking back on it caused Gendry to viscerally recoil.

His sorting continued to haunt him as dessert was eaten around him.

The hat had warned him of following footsteps, had warned him of reaching a crossroads; had encouraged him to forge a path for himself. It had said it couldn’t be done by sticking to his comfort zone.

“ _Gryffindor!_ ”

Gendry knew his housemates were wondering why he had been called to Professor Tyrell’s office earlier that day. A few had spent an extra moment examining the Gryffindor house hourglass in the entrance hall before heading to dinner, just in case he had gained or lost any points that would justify being called in. With no noticeable change, they had shrugged and sat down for dinner.

_That night, Gendry eased the cupboard door open. Stepping out, his feet immediately began tingling after being cramped for however long he’d been curled inside. He felt a sudden cool breeze ruffle the back of his neck and he remembered the kitchen window was open behind him. He just needed to get up onto the counter and he could drop out of the window into the garden outside._

_Clambering up onto the counter top, he froze when he sensed a change in the living room. Mum was sighing from relief again. She giggled._

_Gendry eased the window up so he could fit through, fixing his eyes on the figures in the living room. His eyes slid down and he stilled at what he saw._

_Through the legs of the figures standing over her, Mum was smiling at him. This was a real smile. With the presence of happiness, of relief, rather than the absence of pain._

_He must have lost time somehow. Or perhaps it had simply happened too fast._

_One moment, he was crouched in the kitchen window, locking eyes with Mum with her smiling at him. The next, he was in the dirt, scratched by thorns on the way down and with damp splinters pricking through his clothes._

_Someone – a man, had grabbed him from the window sill and now lay on top of him, pressing him into the ground. The crook of an arm wrapped over his eyes and hands pressed over his ears. He could still hear them, though. The questions, the denials, the crying, the laughter; a never ending cycle._


	8. More for the Motts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new mysterious visitor arrives to the Motts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of an interlude. It puts another couple of irons in the fire (get it?).

It was cold and raining when Gendry crossed through the brick wall from Platform 9 ¾ to the muggle side of King’s Cross Station. Stepping out into the larger atrium, Gendry found Tobho and Elinor waiting for him.

“How was term? You’ve grown – what – another two, two and a half inches? What did you learn?”

“Give him a rest, El,” Tobho gripped Gendry’s shoulder and steered him on while taking Gendry’s trunk in the other hand. “Let’s get him home before you bombard him.” They allowed Elinor to climb onto the bus first, while Gendry and Tobho lifted the trunk and Fabia’s cage with them. The trip to Flea Bottom was just as rainy as his arrival to London, and they were all eager to get inside once they finally made it to Steel Street.

Bundled inside with a hot mugs of tea and cocoa, the ever-persistent Elinor finally coaxed details that Gendry had left out of his letters. Gendry knew she was often frustrated when trying to get him to divulge information on his time at school or his thoughts of the classes. She had described the process as bordering on pulling teeth in the past. Therefore, Gendry did his best to assuage her eager curiosity.

“So you’re a Gryffindor?” She nodded sagely. “I’m very proud of you, that’s the best of them all, you know. I would expect nothing less; you’ve always been brave.” She ignored Tobho rolling his eyes, since everyone in the room knew that neither she nor Tobho had any true concept of the differences between the houses.

“They really do fly on brooms, then? Well, at least there are _some_ things that I can wrap my head around. What about carpets? Do any witches truly wear those giant, pointy hats?”

From there, Elinor made Gendry list every single class he was taking and every professor he had. He listed his housemates, his classmates from the other houses, and the different types of food he’d been given to eat.

“What do you _mean_ , you didn’t get around to it? You _live_ with them, don’t you?” Elinor blurted before she could stop herself. Gendry had just informed her that he could not definitively name any close friends. Tobho shot her a look.

“It’s quite a lot to be going on,” Tobho said noncommittally.

“Right, of course,” Elinor’s face was pink with regret. “I only meant that those boys, Lommy and Hot Pie, sound like they might be nice enough.” Her entire demeanor held enough hope that Gendry suddenly didn’t want to squash it. He shrugged.

“They’re alright, I guess.”

It was true, they did seem alright, if Gendry was honest with himself.

Hot Pie was a trove of knowledge on Westeros, given that he’d grown up there. Hot Pie consisted of long and meandering explanations on which families were more inbred than others, and the intricate processes by which one folded the batter for some recipe, and the many ways in which the gravy could make or break a recipe, and all of his ridiculous rhymes. Once one got past all of that, he was fine.

Lommy was a lot less overwhelming compared to Hot Pie. Maybe it was just because he was a muggleborn, and he was still getting used to everything. As a person, he was also a lot rougher than Hot Pie. His jokes could be a bit mean. On the other hand, he never seemed too offended whenever someone pushed back on his abrasiveness. So at least he could take what he dished out.

Neither of them, Gendry realized, seemed to have held a grudge at him after he blew up at them in front of the Mirror of Erised. They had looked wary of him, scared, even, at first. After a while, though, their wariness had smoothed back over into the boisterous banter they had cultivated before.

Perhaps most importantly to Gendry, they had kept quiet about what they’d learned in front of that mirror. If they’d gone around blabbing to the school, he likely would have started receiving pitying looks. Orina Spyre would certainly have had something pitying to say about him in place of the decidedly gossipy tone she had had. Instead, Hot Pie and Lommy had given him copious amounts of space and when Orina had started up, they had watched Gendry with wide eyes, probably trying to gauge his reaction.

The next morning brought a cold frost and a knock at the door. It was another wizard. Or else another septon. This man, however, distinctly lacked any aura of spiritual enlightenment about him, so Gendry was inclined to label him as a wizard upon first examination.

“My name is Rodrik Cassel. I work with the government.” A wizard, then. He was perhaps in his thirties or forties, with dark hair and a serious face.

It would have been like deja vu, if only there weren’t a tiny girl clutching at the man’s robes. Gendry was burning with curiosity, but was sent to his room while this Cassel spoke in hushed tones with Tobho and Elinor, all while the tiny girl stayed firmly latched to Cassel’s side.

Gendry tried listening at the crack of his door, but it was pointless. Aside from some vague murmurs and grumbles, he heard nothing intelligible. After several minutes, they fetched Gendry and sat him down.

“This is a sensitive matter,” Cassel said without preamble. And he launched into a sanitized version of events that led to a new arrangement.

The Motts had agreed to take little Barra Welsh into their care. Gendry hadn’t been the Motts’ only foster kid, so it wasn’t out of character for them to agree to such an arrangement.

Everything else about this stank of irregularity, though. It was all suspect. From the way in which they had simply appeared without calling ahead, to the fact Barra was accompanied by a wizard, and especially the fact that she came with her own private source of funding for expenses. But Gendry couldn’t say he was shocked that the Motts were willing to take an additional charge into the third room.

What did throw Gendry was the name Welsh. Gendry’s face must have shown he was thinking back on something, because Cassel narrowed his eyes at Gendry.

“You’re familiar with the name?”

“Er,” Gendry was still piecing it together – how _did_ he know the name? “I think so. Welsh, at least. Maybe from the papers?” Cassel looked slightly annoyed at that, but nodded.

“I suppose that was inevitable.” He stole a look down, where Barra still had her face buried in his robes. Her fists would likely leave puckered bunches when she finally let go. “Probably best to leave what you’ve read quiet for the time being.”

Eventually, they bribed Barra to release Rodrik Cassel’s robes with a cup of hot cocoa. Something bothered Gendry about the man. Well, several things bothered Gendry in truth. But mysteriously showing up with a mysterious child with little to no explanation was starting to seem like the norm these days.

No, one of the things that bothered Gendry the most about Cassel was his accent. It was a thick brogue, similar to Mr. Stark’s. Gendry had quickly learned that Westeros’s northern region held a slightly different accent to Scotland’s, although they often sounded strikingly similar. Gendry’s own accent had confused some of his peers, because the Flea Bottom notes mostly sounded like King’s Landing or London, but sometimes like a bastardized County Durham, with unexpected long vowels cropping up now and again.

Stark’s accent was clearly toned down through years of exposure to the south, however – but he had gone to Hogwarts during his formative years, so that wasn’t surprising. Cassel’s accent was far less diluted with southern influences, but they shared the same northern accent nonetheless. That, and they both seemed to share the same depressed demeanor.

When Cassel took his leave, Gendry took the opportunity to walk him to the door.

“Mr. Stark sent you,” Gendry said.

Gendry didn’t think he’d ever live up to Tobho’s finesse as far as being able to make a question sound like a statement of accusation. Nonetheless, he tried to channel Tobho’s unyielding technique. Cassel shot him a look that initially said ‘ _nice try,_ ’ before something more thoughtful took over.

The attempt to get any information out of Cassel was futile, but Gendry strongly suspected he was right.Cassel had made no attempt to dissuade Gendry of the notion.

His attempts to get Tobho and Elinor to tell him what they discussed with Cassel was even more hopeless. Elinor had merely said it was a matter of privacy and left it at that. As for Barra, the girl was perhaps four years old and Gendry doubted she’d even been listening to them talking, given her glazed look. Now that her fists were bereft of Cassel’s robes, she clutched to a stuffed bear while Elinor fussed over her.

“Gendry,” Elinor rattled off. “Can you go to the cupboard in the hall and grab the sheets on the lower shelf? The blue ones on the left. Take them to her room and I’ll make up the bed. Might want to grab a couple of the preschool books, while you’re at it. I doubt we’ll have the story books she’s used to, but we’ll get a routine going soon enough. Tobho, make sure…”

The next several days were a whirlwind of runs to the store to buy extra clothes for Barra, and of getting her settled. Gendry went to the garage with Tobho most of those days, leaving Elinor to give her undivided attention to Barra. He settled into the routine of organizing Tobho’s tools, of doing oil changes and whatever else Tobho set him to do.

Most nights, he’d fall asleep as Fabia sat on her stand by the window sill, observing the night for when she decided to hunt.

_The light from the living room glared at him, but the little boy found he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure how he had stuffed himself into the cupboard under the sink without causing a racket with the basket of detergent bottles, but he found he could just fit. He’d always been big for his age._

_Gendry squeezed his eyes shut to attempt some relief from the living room’s bare light bulb. How had the light’s shade fallen? Probably from the struggle. The entire living room was a mess. Opening his eyes and peaking out from behind the cupboard door, he saw several robed figures surrounding the woman on the floor._

_He had always loved his mother’s long, golden hair. It splayed out across the carpet and created ripples as she writhed on the floor._

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

Was her voice higher than normal?

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

“ _He’s not here!” Another burst of light hit her, and she suddenly relaxed with a sigh._

“ _It can stay this way,” another voice coaxed. “Just tell us where, and you can keep feeling this way.”_

“ _He’s not here. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s-” she gulped. “He’s not here.” Her words began to run together as her head lolled to one side, tugging a curtain of her hair into a new pattern. Like a painter brushing new strokes over the same canvas._

_Another, familiar burst of light hit her, and the screaming, the crying, the convulsing started anew._

Gendry came awake with screams ringing in his ears. Bolting upright, his desperate hands grabbed at the wall, at the edge of the bed, at the sheets, at anything he could reach as his eyes darted around.

He shook his head to clear the screams.

When they didn’t fade, Gendry realized the echoes in his ears weren’t from his nightmare, but the next room over. Stumbling out of bed, he could hear something falling over from down the hall as Elinor kicked something in the dark. Gendry made it to Barra’s room first. Opening the door, he saw a blur and had just enough time to shift his weight to avoid being thrown back onto the floor.

Elinor came round the corner in time to see that Barra had anchored her arms around Gendry’s neck.

* * *

“She’s really taken to you,” Tobho commented several days later. “You should be proud.”

Gendry didn’t know how proud of himself he should feel. She wasn’t his first fellow foster child. There had been Lem and Sera and a few others. He supposed Tobho wasn’t entirely wrong, though. Gendry didn’t normally get so close to other kids this quickly. To be clear, Barra’s proximity wasn’t exactly his doing.

Barra had latched on and refused to let go that night, kicking off a new, exhausting ritual of sorts. He knew, from the article in the Daily Prophet back at school, and now from Barra’s night terrors, that the two of them shared a morbid similarity, as far as mothers went. It struck up a kinship between them.

“Really, you have a way with her.” Tobho insisted, face screwed up while he strained against a bolt that had corroded into place. Gendry handed him a can of oil. “Maybe it’s because you understand her in a way few others ever would. Maybe it’s because you were there first. Who knows? All I’m saying is that you’re good with her. And that you’re better with people than you think you are.”

Yeah, right.

Gendry replayed his confrontation with Joffrey Lannister. He had said a handful of words, and then Joffrey had dug himself a hole and Professor Tyrion Lannister had done the rest. He hadn’t actually done much in the way of interaction, there.

Gendry replayed his unsuccessful confrontation with Orina Spyre in his head. He had intended on proving her wrong; on proving that he could string a sentence together and do something other than mope. Instead, he had proven her point by failing to even come up with anything relevant to say to her.

“Gendry,” Tobho broke into his thoughts. Tobho had set down the can and had turned to fully face him. “I know you’ve got it into your head that you’re some sort of socially inept fool, but you’re not. You just got used to feeling strange and a bit of an outsider because you don’t fit in with the muggle world.” Tobho’s stare made Gendry fidget. If he was honest with himself. Gendry didn’t fit in with the magical world, either. But that answer would not appease Tobho.

“If you think so,” Gendry finally managed. Tobho sighed.

“Barra sees it, and she’s hardly more than a toddler,” Tobho quipped. “And once you finally let yourself make friends at that school, others will see it, too.”

“See what?”

“That you’re a good person. And that you’re worth knowing.”

“What makes you say that?” Gendry spat. He hated the defensive note that leaked out. He hadn’t even known he was angry until he heard his own voice. But Gendry had been slowly, increasingly, realizing that it was always there, lying under the surface.

“You’re just giving the speeches you give to _all_ your foster kids.” Like the giant squid in the black lake, Gendry realized it would lurk there, even if it was below the surface. Without warning, it would rise to the surface and shock some passerby with an unexpected splash. Tobho narrowed his eyes.

“I say so because I mean it.” He picked up the can and dribbled more lubricant over the bolt to help it seep into the stubborn threading and loosen it. “And I don’t say it to _all_ the kids. I’m saying it to _you_.”

“Whatever.”

Gendry knew he was firmly in his surly state, and knew Tobho had now reached the end of his tether, too. Tobho sent him a final, stern look before dismissing him with a gesture to the back room of the garage. The back room with the old tires specifically left for Gendry’s abuse. Maybe he was being petty, but he briefly wondered what Tobho would come up with for Barra.

Would Barra be given a hammer and a bunch of tires to work out her feelings? She was far too small at the moment. Perhaps a bunch of stuffed animals or something. Or some of those creepy dolls that Elinor insisted on keeping and giving to the younger foster kids. It was a wonder they didn’t all have nightmares after spending a night under the surveillance of those dolls.

That night, Gendry was pretty sure he had pulled something. His temper had cooled off, though. Barra had settled on some children’s program that she decided was her favorite and been adamant that Gendry sit next to her on the couch. She had since fallen asleep on his sore shoulder while watching the cartoon.

Gendry wasn’t exactly thrilled to have her pinned to him. Granted, it wasn’t as awful as he might have thought, having a little kid drooling on him. She basically amounted to a heating pad on his shoulder. She wouldn’t need reheating, and aside from the drool on his shirt, she was fairly low maintenance. The only real drawback was that he couldn’t change the channel. He had tried to change it earlier, but she had somehow sensed the change and woke up so she could specifically make him change it back before passing out again.

Gendry liked Barra well enough. But he also couldn’t see how he could possibly relate to her beyond some depressing similarities. He was an eleven-year-old wizard and she was a toddler. He was certain he could never understand her needs, but Tobho still insisted that Gendry helped to fulfill them for her. She needed to be calmed after she relived whatever it was that went on in that flat on Raven Row.

Gendry himself suspected he offered a source of comfort because he wasn’t adult, so he wasn’t required to pester her to drink endless cups of warm tea and milk. He didn’t give her heartfelt speeches that sought to induce a deep search of the soul. Gendry just patted her back, gave her a ride on his back on the way to the sofa and let her drool on him without interruption.

Tobho had it wrong. Barra didn’t sense some pure soul in Gendry. She and him were just the same, was all. With dreams in place of a mother.

A couple of weeks later, it turned out that Gendry was even more right about the two of them being the same than he had initially thought. Given the mysterious circumstances that led to her being moved in with them, no one was particularly surprised at the confirmation. Still, it made for an excitable evening.

Barra was a witch. And a flashy one, at that. She also hated carrots. She would eat anything, it seemed, except for carrots.

Unfortunately, Elinor was a dedicated believer in feeding carrots to developing children, which put them directly at odds with each other. Barra refused to eat them raw. She refused to eat them steamed. She refused to eat them pureed. She refused to eat them boiled. She was sometimes willing to take a bite if they were roasted, but promptly spat it out. On occasion, she would accidentally eat a piece or two if they were in a thick soup, but Elinor was unsatisfied with this.

It all came to a head when, the week before Gendry was to return to Hogwarts to start the spring term, Elinor had decided to dice the carrots and mix them in with Barra’s potatoes. The dinnertime struggle began, and Barra’s own temper was revealed. With a screech, she flung the whole plate, including her beloved potatoes, from the table.

The three of them watched while the plate sailed through the air and sparks flew.

Gendry blinked. There were literal, tiny, sparks of a choking fire tailing the plate’s trajectory. The contents of the plate were smoldering by the time the plate clattered to the floor, and Tobho and Gendry had to dump their glasses onto it to douse the choking flames. As it was, burnt skid marks marred the floor.

“I guess that explains things,” Tobho said. He had always had a knack for understatement.

_Gendry tried squeezing his eyes closed again, again, again. He had to focus. Mum had told him to run. To hide. He was hidden, but he had not run._

_They were by the door. They were upstairs. Mostly, they were in the living room. They were faced away from him, and some higher functioning part of him knew he would soon miss his chance. He never questioned that his mother would be alright. Mum always said she’d be alright._

_Gendry eased the cupboard door open. Stepping out, his feet immediately began tingling after being cramped for however long he’d been curled inside. He felt a sudden cool breeze ruffle the back of his neck and he remembered the kitchen window was open behind him. He just needed to get up onto the counter and he could drop out of the window into the garden outside._

_Clambering up onto the counter top, he froze when he sensed a change in the living room. Mum was sighing from relief again. She giggled._

_Gendry eased the window up so he could fit through, fixing his eyes on the figures in the living room. His eyes slid down and he stilled at what he saw._

_Through the legs of the figures standing over her, Mum was smiling at him. This was a real smile. With the presence of happiness, of relief, rather than the absence of pain._

* * *

It was sometime later that Tobho had tired of Gendry’s antics and had kicked him out of the shop. He found himself wandering towards one of the dingy play parks squashed between shops and flats. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn he’d seen his first ghost somewhere nearby...

“Been a while since anyone’s seen you around, Waters!” Gendry turned to see Morgan and Steve jogging to catch up with him. They had gone to school together, before Gendry’s letter from Hogwarts. They were alright.

“Where’s Anguy?” Gendry asked. They were usually inseparable. If one of them was around, the others were usually nearby.

Anguy was several years ahead of Gendry, but had never seemed to be bothered by Gendry’s strangeness. Even after Gendry had come to be known as a strange boy with strange occurrences, Anguy had taken to corralling Morgan and Steve into hanging out with Gendry after school some days. Ostensibly, it was to show Gendry how to function outside of Mott’s garage. Gendry had a feeling it was truly to bear witness to as many impossible events that seemed to happen around Gendry as he could. Either way, Anguy always been alright.

“He’s gone and gotten himself some fancy internship with City Hall!” Morgan jeered. His tone was somewhat taunting, but it was plain they were both proud of Anguy. The Greater London Authority, colloquially known as City Hall, didn’t give out positions, even student ones, easily. “Apparently the brains at city hall has decided that it’s good press to include kids from Flea Bottom. And he’s gotten all kinds of attention ever since he took first in that archery competition.”

“Yeah, who knows,” Steve added. “Soon enough, he’ll be going to the Olympics or something. He’ll become richer than you, even with your posh scholarship to that school. And he’ll be famous.”

Gendry internally winced. One of the reasons for his enrollment at Hogwarts was that it would help him avoid turning into a ball of dark, destructive magic that would blight both Westeros and the UK. But since he couldn’t exactly go round explaining that Hogwarts was a school for the weird, supernatural children, ‘some posh school’ was the bottom line description. He’d never hear the end of this, he was sure.

“So is he planning on running for office or something?” Gendry half-jested. Anguy always seemed to have excellent fortune in life. An archery prodigy. Good looks, good grades. Charisma.

And now a fancy internship doing fancy things with city hall. Aside from coming from Flea Bottom, and therefore fairly modest means, he had a lot going for him. He’d even managed to turn his neighborhood into an asset rather than something to hide from the well-to-do. Knowing him, he’d probably wind up at a good university by accident.

Steve shrugged.

“Gods know. Knowing him, he’ll wind up being knighted or some shit.”

Together, the three traipsed along their old path towards one of the few parks near them. Park was a generous word for it. It was an empty lot that different developers had tried to buy over the years. But after a half-dozen projects had fallen through due to money mismanagement and the like, it continued to sit empty. Eventually an enterprising group in Flea Bottom had tired of the eye-sore and descended with shovels, hammers, and anything else they had on hand.

Once the lot had been evened out for the most part, a casual campaign of sourcing gravel ensued. Some anonymous person had somehow obtained several bags of gravel one day. If a construction site a few miles away had arrived to find some of their materials missing, who was to say it hadn’t fallen off the back of a lorry?

After several months, the lot was still empty, but at least presentable. A set of monkey bars went up. A set of seesaws made of questionable materials and cobbled together with questionable skill was assembled. Someone donated their old basketball hoops and affixed them to makeshift poles made of repurposed piping. Spray paint had been laid down to mark out a small, slightly misshapen court. During the wetter months, it turned into more of a slurry than a proper field, but the summer and fall months usually hosted the odd match now and then.

The finishing touch came when a primary school was closed and moved to an expanded location. It’s playground was quickly raided and a set of swings and a merry-go-round were added to the Flea Bottom ‘park.’ Another enterprising soul had somehow sourced enough money to pay for cheap asphalt, and suddenly the basketballs could bounce on something harder than loose gravel. Games of football were still played at the other end of the lot, where packed dirt remained untouched.

It was this park that Anguy had shown to Gendry when he had been installed with the Motts. Anguy had gone as far as to put up plywood targets for archery practice. When he had made the mistake of turning his back on his bow for a second, some kid had nearly taken the eye out of their little brother. Their mother had not been amused and Anguy had had to promise to never leave his bow, and any arrows, unattended. To his credit, Gendry had never seen Anguy so much as lay his bow down at the park ever since.

“It’s got more potholes,” Steve commented when they arrived. “Some one keeps driving into it and using the court to turn around when they realize they’re lost.” Morgan scoffed.

“They’re not random lost people. I’d bet you anything it’s that arse Rorge and his lot.”

“Rorge’s got a car?” Gendry asked. Gendry had first encountered Rorge as they both circulated in the foster care system. Rorge was one of the older, bigger kids in their shared placement. He had quickly shown everyone that he was determined to be dominant. Luckily for everyone, Rorge had shown his prevalence for violence early on and Mrs. Barkley had witnessed it. He had been removed soon after to everyone’s collective relief.

“He’s been driving a bunch of cars around lately. There’s no way in the seven hells he owns ‘em, and there’s no way he’s got the owner’s permission.” They let the matter drop while the three of them took up shooting hoops with the frayed and cracked basketball. It was pretty flat, so none of them really bothered to dribble it.

The sky was grey and dreary, and their hands were soon red with the cold. Steve and Morgan cracked jokes and gossiped about about the happenings at their school and updated Gendry on the rumors around some of their teachers.

“Well, if it isn’t the clueless wonder, come back to grace Flea Bottom with his posh ways!”

The sneering voice belonged to none other than Rorge himself. As was typical, Rorge was accompanied by followers Davey and Ferb. Gendry didn’t know Davey or Ferb beyond their reliance upon Rorge to fill their days doing whatever it was they did.

“Tell us, what makes you so special that you’re trying to leave?” Rorge needled.

“Piss off,” Morgan shot back.

“Come on, it’s just us, innit? What, are you too good for us, now that you won’t even speak to us mere mortals?”

Gendry exchanged a brief look with Morgan and Steve. There would be no way to win this if he stayed. Getting involved with someone like Rorge was never a good idea, and this wasn’t Hogwarts. There would be no Tyrion Lannister to come and play referee, dolling out deserved slaps and detentions.

“See you guys later,” Gendry mumbled. He peeled off and Morgan and Steve took the queue and ran interference while Gendry made a quick exit. Steve gave a half-hearted offer of a game while Gendry rounded the corner and headed back to the Motts. Behind him, Davey was complaining that the ball was deflated and they needed a new one. Morgan laughed and asked whether Davey would be willing to buy one. Their brash banter eventually faded and Gendry shivered as the night gathered.

That night, Barra commandeered the television and marveled at the glowing box while Gendry struggled through a dense reading on some goblin rebellion. After sighing for what seemed like the umpteenth time, he snapped his book closed and headed to his room, heedless of Barra’s complaints.

After aimlessly pacing his room, he settled at his desk and slid a drawer open to reveal a series of jars. He had learned early on to put any small objects of value into containers when smaller kids were around. A couple years ago, he had arrived back from school one day a couple years ago to find that one of the younger kids had messed about with his things, leaving jam-covered finger prints all over. Unscrewing the jar and lifting the lid revealed the rolled up scraps of paper he’d been collecting, and he pulled them out.

Several were of his hapless attempts at drawing his mother’s face. A fair few drawings were of whatever else he’d dreamt over the past couple of years. He spread them out across the desk.

A spidery web entangling around a pair of great antlers. An axe splintering against a stone. A ghostly girl with torn trousers and a torn face pointing at something in the fog beyond. A huddled group of figures climbing a ravine under a full moon. A stag picking its way through a forest while eyes spied from the darkness. A pair of stone guards barring entry to a door. A face shrouded in shadows while a strange, scary hand strangled their neck.

Gendry had wisely kept these tucked away from prying eyes. Drawing his idea of his mother’s face was one thing – all the adults seemed to love droning on and on about what it could _lead to_ and what it might _mean_. Drawing nonsensical images of spooky scenes, including a zombie girl and strangulation would have opened a whole new can of worms he wasn’t prepared to delve into. He leaned over the most recent addition.

It was the cupboard door under the sink. He had almost not drawn it last night, thinking it too small an occurrence to bother. But that dream had felt odd; it had itched somehow. It hadn’t been the same dream.

Last night’s dream had not even been a nightmare, but just a dream – images, really – of the cupboard door. Closed at first, and then it opened. And then he was awake. It felt like it represented something momentous, but also like a door to … something. Gendry scratched his temple and huffed as he gave up trying to read into it.

Professor Pycelle had gone on at length about the significance of dreams throughout history. The dreams of the Targaryens, the dreams of famous seers. He had outlined many a famous witch and wizard who had dreamt of great somethings before they went on to do something great.

Who was Gendry to think his dreams could possibly mean anything? It’s not like he had anything to do with Targaryens, or great seers or any such thing. Especially a dream of some stupid cupboard door opening? It was hardly even a dream.

Gendry rolled the pages back up and tucked them back into the jar. He hesitated before setting it back into it’s slot in the drawer, however. Against his better judgment, he stuck it in his school trunk instead. With his luck, Barra would find a way to reveal those pages to the Motts. They’d probably worry and stew over it during the spring term. Then he’d arrive home for the summer holidays to face months of speeches and tea and probably trips to some child specialist with a coffee table covered in paper and pencils.


	9. Witches Hunted, Witches Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry returns to Hogwarts and learns of some of the trials witches have faced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to everyone for the wonderful comments and kudos – I’ve never had this kind of response on a story before. Every time I see a comment or kudos it leaves me with a stupid smile on my face for the rest of the day.
> 
> In case it’s not clear, the “Church” and the “Faith of the Seven” are one and the same. If someone mentions a church/cathedral, or the relationship between the Church and State, they are talking about the Faith (or Sept) and the State. The terms are used interchangeably.  
> The Old Gods are what people in the northern regions, both muggle and magical, follow. Zealous southerners are likely to view northerners as uncouth pagans – think something akin to the Picts.  
> Martyn Lewthor is based on the real-life historical figure of Martin Luthor.  
> Jysus = Jesus.  
> Many other elements are a blend of historical events.

“Be good,” Elinor said. For the umpteenth time that morning, she tried to swipe at his unruly hair that refused to be tamed. She had recently cut it so it wasn’t long and overgrown. She had quite forgotten that the longer his hair was, the more it weighed itself down. Now that it was so short again, it gained a mind of it’s own and there was very little that could keep it lying flat.

“I will,” Gendry mumbled.

“And send us a letter every month,” Elinor continued. “Make sure you keep me – us – updated on what’s going on.” She smoothed Gendry’s coat before turning to Tobho. She shot Tobho an expectant look, and he was prompted to clear his throat.

“And remember, just,” Tobho trailed off, apparently trying to figure out a tactful way of telling Gendry to be nice and make some friends. “Do your best.”

“Sure,” Gendry shrugged noncommittally. Tobho shot him an annoyed look at that but said nothing. Since Gendry was about to leave it was clear Tobho wasn’t willing to pick a fight over it. Meanwhile, Elinor was now trying to pry Barra’s fingers away from Gendry’s trousers. Gendry tried to pat her shoulder, and cringed because even he knew he had probably made things worse.

“Time to let him go now,” Elinor was coaxing her. “We don’t want him to miss his train.” This was of little consolation to Barra, because she wrapped her arms around his leg and sagged, trying to make herself heavier. “Come on, Barra, he’ll be back for the summer holidays. The weather will be nicer then and he’ll be able to play with you more.”

“No!” Barra yelled stubbornly. At least she wasn’t afraid of saying what was on her mind.

After being peeled off of Gendry as gently as possible, Barra was transferred to Tobho while Elinor fussed over Gendry one last time.

Gendry passed through the barrier, boarded the Hogwarts Express and found an empty compartment. He saw Lommy and Hot Pie pass by his compartment a time or two, and was glad they had found somewhere else to sit. Thenhe mentally kicked himself. He was not an hour out of London and already, he wasfailing Tobho’s one request of him and the term hadn’t even started.

Right now, the closest people to Gendry, aside from the Motts, seemed to be Anguy, who was careening off to a bright future filled with many accolades and friends, and Barra, a four-year-old.

He thought of how she wouldn’t let go of that man, Rodrik Cassel’s, robes. He thought of how she had not let go of him at King’s Cross station because Gendry, who was still a virtual stranger, was one of the most reliable things left in her life.Over the last few weeks there had been severalmoments when he had averted his eyes from her. He found he couldn’t bear to look at her when she resembled a twisted version of his own life.

  
  


* * *

  
  


With the start of the spring term, Gendry and the rest of the first years found themselves reevaluating their proximity to final exams. It was still only January, some said, and the end of the year felt so far away. But given how Professors Tyrell, Nudho and Lannister had already given out additional study guides for areas to focus on, the first years found themselves doubting just how worried they should be. Even Professor Pommingham was starting to assign longer essays – essays – rather than the usual hands-on assignments.

Matters were made worse once the second and third years smelled blood in the water. They started preying on the fears of the first years. They claimed that if one didn’t pass enough of their exams by a high enough margin, they’d be sent to Oldtown, where the Academy for Squibs of the Seven, run by the septons and septas of Oldtown might take them.

“They say the head septa there is really mean.” Became one mantra Perla Blackgard had become fond of. “And that the head septon isn’t much better.”

“The septas that teach at the Academy for Squibs of the Seven teach there for a reason,” Casper Wylde, a second year Ravenclaw commented one day. He had cornered Brynna Nyte, a first year Hufflepuff. “It’s because they were never that strong in magic, so they’re jealous. And now they’ve decided to renew the strength of the Faith Militant and take over Westeros.”

“Yeah,” piped another voice. It might have been Harwyn Morrigen, but Gendry wasn’t sure. “I heard they’ve been making inroads with some of the septs in the muggle world, too. The Faith is one of the only bits of crossover between the UK and Westeros. Muggles have always been out to destroy our world. Those squibs will tear you apart if you’re sent to Oldtown.”

“That’s if you’re lucky!” Someone else sneered, needing to pile on. “If you can’t make it in Oldtown, they’ll send you to Oxford, and you’ll have to figure out how to live amongst the muggles. If they find out you’re from Westeros, they’ll bring witch hunts back; make the Mad King look like a casual pyromancer.”

It was Domeric Bolton who finally took pity on them and told them they would be fine.

“No one who goes to Hogwarts would ever be sent to the Academy for Squibs of the Seven,” he assured them. “The Academy only accepts squibs, and squibs can’t go to Hogwarts. Besides,” Domeric send Morrigen a look. “One of the main points of that school is to prepare squib students to be able to navigate the muggle world, not destroy ours.”

A first year Slytherin, Alma Qohoris, had looked even more scared, if anything. “But that still means a renewed Faith and Faith Militant is possible in general, though, even if we’re never sent to that school. My mum works at the ministry and says there are some parts of the church that still remember magic, and have been making plans for how to steal it, or at least destroy it.” Domeric had looked exasperated.

“There’s no way to ‘steal’ magic, much less destroy it. That’s just ancient muggle rhetoric because they didn’t know how magic works. It can’t be stolen.”

“But even if that’s true,” Alma shot back. “ _They don’t know that_. Which means they might try to. And my mum says muggles might not have magic, but they’ve got …” she stumbled, thinking for the word. “They’ve got … tek, tekonolgee … tenokolgie … ”

“Technology?” Lommy supplied. Alma snapped her fingers, shooting Lommy a look in thanks.

“That’s it! Tech… yeah.” She shook her head. “Anyway, muggles might not be able to apparate or see ghosts or dementors or sense magic, but they’ve got things that go to the moon and their own ways of spying on people and they’ve got all kinds of weapons that we wouldn’t even see coming. My mum says they’ve figured out a way to talk to each other from opposite ends of the world.”

“ _We_ can talk to each other from opposite ends of the world, too,” Edgarth Frey said, sounding bored. “That’s not special.” But Alma shook her head.

“But they can do it _without magic_. We wouldn’t have a clue how to do that sort of thing without magic, and their whole world is set up to be able to do stuff like that.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


It did not help Alma’s anxieties that Professor Pycelle had decided to begin covering the Crusades in class later that day.

Gendry normally had some amount of bored interest in the histories of goblin rebellions and the like, but to hear that the crusades were based on actual magical people was mind blowing to him. He listened with rapt attention at the magical version of events.

“The Age of the Crusades are also referred to as simply, the Crusades. They are also known more casually as witch hunts and witch purges. They were a series of religious wars initiated, supported, and sometimes directed by the Faith of the Seven,” Professor Pycelle creaked. “There had been historic tensions between the Faith and the magical pure-blood nobility of the Seven Kingdoms. The Faith was largely composed of muggle clergymen, which likely exacerbated their differences.”

“Officially, the tensions between the Faith and the nobility was based on the Faith’s wish to expand their influence among those in the northern kingdoms due to the population’s adherence to The Old Gods, which they considered to be heretical.”

“However, the Faith’s wish to proselytize was largely an excuse, albeit a coinciding legitimate goal. The Faith’s primary focus in this struggle was power, split into two main goals: land and law.

“The Faith’s lands have always been limited, thus the attempt at a land grab. They had been largely relegated to the lands granted to them by the noble class. The Faith were exempt from taxes on their lands, but their inability to obtain more land inherently put limitations on the amount of wealth they could accrue.”

“As for the law, the Faith had long had the power to dispense justice with the enforcement of the Faith Militant, but the nobility and wizard kings of each kingdom had jurisdiction over magical folk. Any “enforcement” from the Faith Militant was largely for show, as their ranks were almost solely composed of muggles and some squibs. Whenever the Faith reached a decision to which the magical disagreed, they could often ignore said judgment, and the Faith Militant would be helpless to respond.”

“This became a regular problem because the magical and muggle folk were intermixed at the time, and conflicts between them were common. The Faith wanted to unify the worlds and assert their jurisdiction of laws and enforcement over magical folk.”

“Separately, the Faith began collecting tithes on pain of prolonged suffering in purgatory, having convinced the illiterate masses that the tithes were necessary if one wanted their dead loved ones to be spared purgatory and the Seven Hells. Frequent complaints from the small folk, both magical and muggle alike, caused the nobility to question the balance of power with the Faith, which had been consolidating increasing amounts of power, influence and wealth. They responded by placing strict limitations on the Faith’s ability to obtain any new lands, which the Faith interpreted as a hostile move.”

“Historical accounts are spotty, however it was soon after the nobility placed restrictions on the Faith’s landownership that someone – their identity is lost to time – notified the Faith that one of their most respected figures had been murdered.”

“Septon Barth had been one of the Faith’s most revered members, and an accomplished wizard to boot. He brought many advancements to the magical and muggle worlds alike.” Professor Pycelle wheezed for a moment.

“Professor!” A hand shot up, and Professor Pycelle’s wheezes subsided while he squinted at the hand.

“Yes, Mister … ah, Mallister?” Garth Morvayne, a Hufflepuff, briefly looked confused at being called Mallister.

“It’s Morvayne, sir. Garth Morvayne. The Hufflepuff House Ghost,” Garth continued. “Is he the same person as the Septon Barth you’re talking about?”

“We shall cover his life and accomplishments at a later time, Mr. Marbrand.” Professor Pycelle coughed and pulled in a creaking breath, ignoring Garth’s continued confused expression.

“Ahem. Septon Barth’s death brought widespread mourning and accolades from many in both worlds. For a time, the Faith had believed his death to be of natural causes. When they learned that his death had, in actuality, been the result of poison, they vowed distrust of the nobility, and of the magical community at large. The Faith did not have many witches or wizards among their ranks, and the realization that one of their few magical members had been murdered left them feeling vulnerable and under attack.”

“Relations between the Faith and their base constituency were further threatened when Professor Martyn Lewthor, an accomplished septon and theological scholar, posted his theses on the door to the Starry Sept in Oldtown. The tradition of posting one’s theses on the door to the Starry Sept was a long one, but the contents of _his_ ideas and writings were viewed as inflammatory.

“Among his theses was a treatise denouncing the indulgences of the High Septons of the Faith. The Faith found Lewthor’s actions particularly destabilizing, since Lewthor had been one of their more respected muggle members.

“Later, Professor Lewthor compounded his precarious position with the Faith when he translated The Seven-Pointed Star, the Faith’s religious text, from Latin into English so that literate small folk could read it.

“One portion of the Seven-Pointed Star would later become quite famous, for it featured discourse around the life and deeds of Jysus, an Essosi man who led a movement against the corruption and greed of the Free Cities. He was, of course, a wizard who had chosen to live in the muggle world where he worked as a carpenter before taking up his cause. He performed several ‘miracles’ such as multiplying food and turning water to wine – a simple matter of conjuring additional food and converting the water to wine, of course.

“The Faith had long lauded the deeds of Jysus, but as an ordinary man who performed incredible deeds in the name of the Faith. When the populace could read for themselves his deeds and teachings, it became quite clear he was a wizard who championed their cause. The Faith felt an additional threat from magical beings who might wish to redistribute wealth, ideas and power and therefore upset the balance of the Faith’s institutional influence.

“When the general populace began to explore The Seven-Pointed Star, and found no mention of the extortion they had experienced for generations, the Faith’s influence was further loosened, and the ranks of the Faith felt further threatened.

“In fact, many of those who followed the Seven were quite upset. There were increasing instances of unrest and questions were raised to the Faith, who were unused to having to answer such questions of accountability. Many in the North had been reticent in following the Seven. Many more were grudging in attendance to Sunday services lauding the Seven. They were a minority in the North to begin with, but when Martyn Lewthor nailed his notes to the door of the Starry Sept, it caused a definitive exodus.

“The North largely abandoned the Faith. To this day, many cathedrals and septs in the North display windows with clear glass. They originally bore the traditional, colorful glass windows. Upon the North’s abandonment, however, they symbolically broke the church windows. If anyone travels to the North, or indeed muggle Scotland, they will find that churches bear the clear glass windows rather than colorful ones like in the south. This is a holdover from the lash-back against the Faith after Martyn Lewthor’s notes.

“This was the last straw for the Faith. They felt vulnerable from Septon Barth’s murder. They felt betrayed from Septon Martyn Lewthor’s notes on the door of the Starry Sept.” Professor Pycelle gave a rattling cough and looked around. It seemed that only Gendry, Lommy Elyanna Westerling, and perhaps two others were even awake. Pycelle’s gaze wandered over to him.

“Mister Durrandon, have you a question?”

Professor Pycelle’s question hung in the air for a moment while the class tried to rouse itself from its stupor.

“Huh?” Gendry asked. He could have sworn Professor Pycelle had been looking at him, but it was difficult to tell with the silvery spectre. “Er, no sir. And I’m Gendry Waters, sir.”

“As you say, Mister Durwell. Ahem.” A couple of students rolled their eyes at Professor Pycelle. First Garth, now Gendry. It seemed Professor Pycelle couldn’t get anyone’s names right, but he was now two for two in one day.

“To continue: Upon the death of their wizarding ally and the betrayal by their muggle comrade, The Faith of the Seven decided to wrest power, both in the form of land and influence, from the nobility. For their part, the nobility saw the Faith’s actions to be those of fearful, lesser beings who simply wanted to steal their magic or to destroy their ways of life.”

“Professor?” Dyanna Hightower had raised her hand.

“Ahem?” Professor Pycelle coughed.

“I have a question. The crusades, the witch trials – the muggles knew about magic and drove the purges, so why doesn’t the muggle world remember this?”

“Ah, excellent question, Miss Hayford.” He took a shuddering breath, and the rest of the class sighed.

“Ahem. Muggles certainly do remember magic in a sense. It was quite impossible to obliviate every muggle, to say nothing of destroying all evidence of our world by way of written text.”

“Tales of magic, magic folk and creatures such as dragons have since been recorded into tomes of lore, and the purges have been described as the result of a combination of factors.”

“One such factor was a stressor being the power struggle between the church and the body politic. That is to say, the sept and the crown, as they are more commonly referred. Another factor the muggles say caused the purge, is a land grab.”

“It was far more common for a woman to be accused of being a witch than a man, regardless of whether either had been seen to perform magic. In truth, only a few dozen truly magical wizards were ever executed as such over the course of over a century of purges. Many of those were due to extenuating circumstances, some were young muggle-borns who had yet to gain control of their abilities, for instance.

“Far more magical witches were accused and subsequently killed for performing magic. Records are incomplete, but some estimates put the toll at over three hundred. Again, most of those were muggle-born witches who could not adequately hide their abilities because they themselves did not understand them, or else young witches who had little understanding of how to navigate the muggle world and were subsequently identified and captured.

“These numbers pale in comparison to the numbers of false witches and wizards who were accused and killed. That is to say, muggles who were accused of magic when in fact they were quite incapable. Some estimates put the number into the thousands of women muggles who were decried for witchcraft, despite that not being the case.”

“Muggle historians explain this phenomenon of witch hunts and purges on, as I mentioned, a medieval struggle of religion. However, the predominant explanation is a land grab.”

“A significant number of women who were accused and killed were women landowners. They were often widows or heiresses with no apparent male heir. Even in instances where their reputations would otherwise be above reproach, they were often tortured into confessions of being witches. In the occasional event that they refused to confess, they would be placed in a ridiculous and impossible quandary. One of the many examples was to be drowned under water, having been bound and weighted down with stones.”

“If they ‘ _passed_ ’ a so-called test to determine their magical status by failing to surface, their reputations would be cleared, but they would be dead, and their land would be distributed to others, often their accuser. If they failed to pass the test by somehow surviving, they would be killed, and their land would be distributed to others, often their accuser.”

“Thus, muggles remember the Age of the Crusades, with witch hunts and purges, as a time driven by a struggle for land and religion, and a distinct disregard for women who held lands or who failed to conform to religious or societal expectations. Ironically, such a framing is relatively accurate to the truth, barring the magical nobility’s efforts to erase their presence in the muggle’s historical narrative.”

“To further muddy the waters, there were several well-documented, honest accusations of witchcraft levied at other muggles who were innocent of any magical activity. _Ergot fungi_ , or rye ergot, is a fungus, a member of the genus Claviceps. When contaminated grain is consumed, it’s toxins can cause several deleterious effects, some of them hallucinogenic in nature.”

“Thus, several cases of muggles who indeed did not own land, nor were they otherwise maligned by society, were accused by their peers who had no detectable ulterior motives for such accusations. Ahem.”

At some point during Professor Pycelle’s descriptions of methods of torture of those suspected of performing magic, the class had roused from their stupor. Alma Qohoris, in particular, looked stricken, although she still took a moment to shoot Edgarth Frey a look of superiority to say she had told him so.

“Ahem. Your essays on the ways in which witches were purged is due next week,” Pycelle croaked. “Please pay close attention to the extent to which the Faith of the Seven attempted to obtain lands for the income they would bring.”

It took some time, but after the first years calmed down from the drama of thinking failure would see them sent to Oldtown and relive the Age of the Crusades, everyone settled into their classes.

  
  


* * *

  
  


February rolled through, and March approached. The snows melted and were replaced with muddy lawns and miserable, overcast skies. As though drawn to join in the gloomy mood by some elemental power, Ned Stark returned to Hogwarts.

Luckily for Gendry, Professor Tyrell had simply pulled him aside at the end of class that day and told him to come to his office after his last class had finished up. Without having to duck the curious looks of his classmates, Gendry made his way to Professor Tyrell’s office as requested.

Gendry was speechless for a moment when he saw Mr. Stark. Chronologically, he couldn’t have been very old. Yet the man who stood in front of Professor Tyrell’s desk looked ancient. His beard was still neatly trimmed, but a bit more of his hair and beard had turned grey. There were deep shadows under his eyes, highlighting the storms in his eyes. His robes, still neat and made of fine material, seemed to hang from him. His face was already naturally mournful, but now the rest of him matched.

“I’ll leave you to it. Check back in a bit,” Professor Tyrell said to Mr. Stark, and closed the door. They were alone.

“Please, take a seat,” Gendry sat. “There’s quite a bit that needs to be covered. I know you have questions. Probably a lot of them. I ask you to hold them until after I’ve asked a few more of my own.”

A sense of indignation and impatience swirled in Gendry and he wanted to demand his answers first. But he also realized he needed to use a modicum of restraint. Mr. Stark was unique in that he was perhaps the only person with both the capacity _and_ the desire to tell Gendry what he wanted to know. He took a breath.

“Did you send Rodrik Cassel?” To his surprise, Mr. Stark gave a faint smile.

“Yes. He mentioned you were a sharp one. Was it the paper that clued you in? What gave it away?” Gendry shrugged.

“Just a feeling, I guess. He reminded me of you. And you both have the same accent, only his is thicker.” That brought another faint smile.

“Rodrik is a good friend,” he commented. He shifted and was back to a more brusque setting. “Now, I’ll ask my question. I promise to tell you what I know, and I’ll answer what I can after. But there are gaps in what I know – or think I know – you see. And you’re the only person who can fill them in.”

Gendry wanted to laugh for a moment. Him? A source of information? A black hole, more like. But Stark seemed to be his only hope of escaping the chasm of knowledge in which he found himself. He nodded.

“You were entered into the foster system when you were about five years old,” Stark said. “Tell me how that happened.”

“It’s in my file,” he muttered. He briefly wondered whether Stark even had access to the muggle foster system’s records. But this was a wizard of some renown; surely he had the ability to find out whatever he wanted. But if he were that omniscient, would he really need to turn to a first year who didn’t even know his own mum’s name?

“Yes, I’ve read it,” Stark sighed, confirming Gendry’s initial thought. “But it’s clear there’s more to what happened than what is in the file. All it says is that you turned up at a muggle hospital and said your mother was in danger. They mentioned that you rambled on and didn’t make much sense. They dismissed a lot of what you said and wrote that you had aggrandized your experience in your mind. Apparently, they thought this to be typical of your age group at the time.”

Didn’t make much sense. That was one way of putting it. Gendry’s memory of that hospital and the many people who swarmed him after was hazy in spots, but other details had become clear of late.

“It was after my fifth birthday,” Gendry remembered. “It might have been a week, or even a few weeks after, but I remember I was certain of my age when they asked me. We had _just_ celebrated it, my mum and I. She told me I was getting so big, now that I was five.” He stole a look at Mr. Stark, who nodded gravely, his attention rapt. Gendry felt validation that for once, someone had dispensed with trying to cheer him up and distract him.

“One night, a bunch of people came. They were dressed in robes.” Gendry frowned, trying to separate the memory from the dream. Was that even possible at this point? “They kept casting spells at her. They would hurt her and she would yell and cry a lot. And then they’d cast a new spell and she’d laugh.”

_Another, familiar burst of light had hit her, and the screaming, the crying, the convulsing, had started anew. Gendry tried squeezing his eyes closed again, again, again._

Gendry must have gone silent, because Mr. Stark eventually broke the silence.

“They didn’t see you?” Gendry shook his head.

“My mum had told me to hide, and to run when I could. The people, they had looked through the house. They kept asking her where ‘he’ was, where 'he' had gone. Where she had sent ‘him.’ I think they were talking about me, but I’m not sure.

“Eventually, I climbed up to a window. A man grabbed me and we ran, and he took me to a hospital and disappeared. When people asked me where my parents were, I told them my mum was in trouble. They sent the police looking, but I didn’t know the address. I described the house as much as I could, but it didn’t really help. There was a sand box and a couple of bushes in the back yard, and some bushes in the front. They couldn’t really narrow it down from that. After a while, they sort of just told me she was probably dead and I’d never see her again.”

A familiar haunted look came over Mr. Stark’s face. Gendry watched as a new sense of confusion took over the man's face and he took several moments to mull things over.

“A man grabbed you? He took you to that hospital?” Gendry nodded. “Describe him for me.” But all Gendry could do was shrug.

“I never got a proper look at him. He put his arm over my face. He was a wizard though, because he had a wand, but I have no idea what he looked like.”

Mr. Stark’s face became grooved with creases while he frowned in thought. After another moment or two, he refocused on Gendry.

“Thank you, Gendry.” Mr. Stark sat forward. “Now, I know you have questions. You’re about to have more in just a moment.” He took a breath.

“Once the muggle authorities couldn’t find your address, and therefore your mother, you were told she had likely died. It’s understandable on their part; there had been no record of a call to the police, no crime scene, no report of a woman being attacked, no home invasion. Any lost children reported around the same time were of different ages or descriptions. They had nothing else to go on, and there was no sense in giving you false hope.” Mr. Stark shifted uncomfortably.

“You asked me, the day we met, why people keep asking you about your parents if you were an orphan.” Gendry nodded along. Stark was tilting his head, seeking a way to frame things. Coming to a decision, Stark took reset his shoulders and began anew.

“I am the new Hand, you know, but I’ve technically had this very job before. Several years ago, I led the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It was in the early days after the war. But as I said before, a war doesn’t truly end when we’d like it to. One side might declare it over. Another side might see it as a temporary setback.

“There was a case that I was called out to. A woman had been attacked. When I got to the house, I battled some of the intruders, but most of them fled before I could stop them. I went through the house and it was clear she had a child, a son, but he was nowhere to be found.”

Gendry felt numb at this point. He logically knew where this was probably headed, but his mind couldn’t seem to grasp it.

“I searched; I put half the department out looking. I knew who the attackers were – some of them, anyway – so we tried tracking them to find you.” He heaved a sigh. “I did check to see if the muggles had found a child anywhere near the village, and then the county. And then the next county over, but I turned up nothing. It didn’t occur to me to expand the search to the entire UK, let alone London. I assumed if the child had somehow wandered beyond Westeros, he would stay in the local geographic area.”

“Wait,” Gendry said. “I thought I was from the London area. I was left outside a London area hospital.” Gendry knew he probably shouldn’t be hung up over such a detail, but he had always thought he was from somewhere in or around London. It was about the _o_ _nly_ thing he thought he knew about himself.

“You very well might be from the London area, originally. But at that time, you and your mother lived in the South West. In Cornwall. She had – well, a lot of people had – made enemies during the war. Everyone was on edge, waiting to see if the peace would hold. A lot of people moved away from London, from King’s Landing. I imagine she went to Cornwall to be away from it all.” Mr. Stark took searched Gendry for more questions before he took up his narration again.

“As I say, your mother had been attacked. You were missing. We looked for you everywhere we could think of in Westeros. We asked the ministries in Essos to keep an eye out for you. We even had the Magical Congress notified in case you turned up over there. It didn’t occur to me you might be just a few miles away from ministry headquarters, on the muggle side in Flea Bottom.”

“What was her name?” Gendry asked. Stark briefly cocked his head at something in Gendry’s question.

“Thea Waters,” Mr. Stark briefly stared into the middle distance. “We went to Hogwarts together. She was a year or two ahead of me.” He plowed forward, letting Gendry listen. “I didn’t know her very well, but she was generally well-liked. She was a good student. A Ravenclaw. But Gendry.”

Gendry felt Mr. Stark’s grip on his shoulder.

“I’ve been working up to this to try to give you as much information as possible before I spring this on you. The day we met, you referred to yourself as being an orphan, but you’re not.”

Gendry took a moment to process this.

“So, my dad isn’t…?” Stark shook his head.

“No, but _Gendry_ -” his grip tightened on Gendry’s shoulder. “Your mother, Thea. She’s _alive_.”

  
  


Something bottomed out in him, and it took a while before he felt he could think in sentences again. As it was, he only managed a word.

“What?” Another heavy sigh.

“She never died that night. She survived. When I got there, you were gone, but she was there, and she was alive.”

Scratch that. There had been two things, not just one. There had been two things he had known about himself. He was from the London area and his mother was dead. Those had been the two things in his file that he had been told the most. The two things authorities felt most certain to be accurate.But everything was wrong. How could -

“Gendry?” Mr. Stark was calling to him. “Gendry? Did you hear me?”

“Where the _hell is_ she, then?” The venom surprised Gendry, but Mr. Stark took it in stride.

“She’s at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.” Mr. Stark’s voice was level. This meant nothing to Gendry, so Stark elaborated: “It’s in London.”

“She’s at a hospital?” Mr. Stark nodded.

“In London?” Another nod.

“She’s – what, she’s been there all this time?” Stark nodded.

 _Seven hells_ , she’d been so close the whole time.

A quick knock sounded at the door, and Loras Tyrell stepped in.

“How are things?” He asked.

“ _You_ ,” Gendry spat, rounding on him. “You knew. This whole time.” He was standing up, now. “Every day in class. Every time you see me. You’ve _known_ , and you never said a thing.” He felt a hand on his shoulder and whirled on Ned Stark, wrenching away.

“And I don’t give a damn what sort of reason you had for not telling me when you found out. You could have -” he grasped for the words. “I could have, I could – I _live in London!_ I could have seen her over the holidays. I was just _there_ two months ago!” He froze as a sudden thought struck him.

“Is Barra like me? Was her mother attacked like mine? Was it by the same people? Why? Is her mum even _dead_? Are you going to keep her in the dark, too?”

Gendry found himself sinking to the floor, clutching at the blinding pain in his hand. He belatedly realized he had punched at the wall of Professor Tyrell’s office, and the stone wall had not humored his temper.

“Broken,” one of the voices above him murmured. “At least two bones, probably three, if I were to guess.”

Gendry was morbidly glad for his injury when he looked up and realized the entire office was swimming through his tears.

“I want to see her,” Gendry managed.

“You will,” Mr. Stark assured him. “I will take you myself, you have my word. But first, you’ll go to the hospital wing.”

“I could go now, to the hospital. The one in London, they could fix me there.” Gendry tried. Again, his shoulders were in Ned Stark’s grip and his view was filled with Ned Stark’s face. It’s resting state was normally mournful, but now there were only hard edges. The wizard didn’t budge.

“No.”

Gendry opened his mouth to protest.

“Ned, perhaps we should get him to Madame Mooton first-”

“No, he needs to hear this.” He didn’t bother looking at Loras. “Gendry,” he spoke slowly. “I give you my word you’ll see your mother. But it will take some time.”

“But-”

“We have to move cautiously, Gendry. If you’re suddenly seen hanging around a residential patient who hasn’t seen visitors in ages, it could cause people to ask questions. It could lead to others kicking off plans sooner than we’re ready for.

“Your mother was attacked _for a reason_. I have to set things up so you can make visits without drawing too much attention. Remember what I said last time.”

The grip on Gendry’s shoulders momentarily tightened. Ned Stark would never be someone Gendry would describe as warm. But up until now, Stark had injected a certain amount of clinical gentleness in his interactions with Gendry. Now, he had dispensed with any notion of handling Gendry with kid gloves. A sense of urgency underpinned Mr. Stark’s next words.

“ _Secrecy is your friend_. Barra’s mother truly is dead. I needed to send Barra to a place people wouldn’t think to look. Since you’ve been sitting under everyone’s noses for such a long time, I figured the Motts’s home is about as safe a place as anywhere these days.”

“Can we take him to Madame Mooton, now?” Loras broke in. “His hand is swelling.”

They brought Gendry to the Hospital Wing, and Madame Mooton had reset his hand with sickening sounds as the bones straightened. Mr. Stark was not yet done with Gendry, however.

Mr. Stark waited while she gave Gendry a first potion and remained silent while she told Gendry he was to remain there for the night. But when she brought out the second potion and was about to administer it to Gendry, Mr. Stark deftly intercepted it, ignoring her sputtering. He held it in his hand opposite Madame Mooton so she could not grab it back.

“ _Who do you think you-_ ” Madame Mooton had started, but Mr. Stark cut her off.

“He’ll get it in a moment. You are dismissed.” Judging by both Madame Mooton’s and Professor Tyrell’s faces, they were being treated to a rare version of the Hand of the Minister. After a moment of sputtering indignation, Madame Mooton received a nod from Professor Tyrell. She finally relented and stalked off, muttering about jumped up wizards with no regard for student health.

“There’s something else you need to know.”

Gendry’s hand was in nowhere near the same level of agony as before it was set and splinted, but it was still painful and distracting.

“Your father,” Mr. Stark continued. “I have yet to tell him that you’re alive. I do plan on telling him. But again,” his grey eyes drilled into Gendry’s. “I have to move slowly. He’s, he’s not the most subtle person. Once he knows, it’s unlikely he’ll be able to hide his reaction. There are those who will be watching him, and they’ll realize something is up. Not a word of this to anyone.” He stood and handed Gendry the potion.

“Drink this.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


_The light from the living room glared at him, but the little boy found he couldn’t look away. He wasn’t sure how he had stuffed himself into the cupboard under the sink without causing a racket with the basket of detergent bottles, but he found he could just fit. He’d always been big for his age._

_Gendry squeezed his eyes shut to attempt some relief from the living room’s bare light bulb. How had the light’s shade fallen? Probably from the struggle. The entire living room was a mess. Opening his eyes and peaking out from behind the cupboard door, he saw several robed figures surrounding the woman on the floor._

_He had always loved his mother’s long, golden hair. It splayed out across the carpet and created ripples as she writhed on the floor._

“ _Please, no!” She shrieked again. For the tenth time. The hundredth?_

“ _Just tell us where you sent him.” Came the answer. “Tell us where he is!”_

“ _He’s not here!” Another burst of light hit her, and she suddenly relaxed with a sigh._

“ _It can stay this way,” another voice coaxed. “Just tell us where, and you can keep feeling this way.”_

“ _He’s not here. He’s not here, he’s not here, he’s-” she gulped. “He’s not here.” Her words began to run together as her head lolled to one side, tugging a curtain of her hair into a new pattern. Like a painter brushing new strokes over the same canvas._

_Another, familiar burst of light hit her, and the screaming, the crying, the convulsing started anew. New brush strokes. Gendry tried squeezing his eyes closed again, again, again. He had to focus. Mum had told him to run. To hide. He was hidden, but he had not run._

_They were by the door. They were upstairs. Mostly, they were in the living room. They were faced away from him, and some higher functioning part of him knew he would soon miss his chance. He never questioned that his mother would be alright. Mum always said she’d be alright._

_Gendry eased the cupboard door open. Stepping out, his feet immediately began tingling after being cramped for however long he’d been curled inside. He felt a sudden cool breeze ruffle the back of his neck and he remembered the kitchen window was open behind him. He just needed to get up onto the counter and he could drop out of the window into the garden outside._

_Clambering up onto the counter top, he froze when he sensed a change in the living room. Mum was sighing from relief again. She giggled._

_Gendry eased the window up so he could fit through, fixing his eyes on the figures in the living room. His eyes slid down and he stilled at what he saw._

_Through the legs of the figures standing over her, Mum was smiling at him. This was a real smile. With the presence of happiness, of relief, rather than the absence of pain._

_He must have lost time somehow. Or perhaps it had simply happened too fast._

_One moment, he was crouched in the kitchen window, locking eyes with Mum with her smiling at him. The next, he was in the dirt, scratched by thorns on the way down and with damp splinters pricking through his clothes._

_Someone – a man, had grabbed him from the window sill and now lay on top of him, pressing him into the ground. The crook of an arm wrapped over his eyes and hands pressed over his ears. He could still hear them, though. The questions, the denials, the crying, the laughter; a never ending cycle._

_After another moment, Gendry felt himself being dragged along the ground, driving new splinters into his skin and picking up dew from the grass. Once clear of the rosebushes below the kitchen window, the man tucked Gendry under one arm and crept along the side wall._

_They were almost to the street when a flash of color lit up behind them, and Gendry found himself once again crushed between the man and the ground. The eerie flash sailed overhead and Gendry found it was difficult to draw breath with the man’s arm clamped around him. Flashes flew by Gendry’s face as the man sent his own colorful retaliation back into the night._

_Then, they were up, pelting towards the street. The man’s heel hit the sidewalk beyond the garden and he turned on his heel, spinning them to face their pursuers. As they spun, Gendry’s home, with his mum inside, whirled into view, even in the darkness. Then, he felt a lurch and an enormous pressure from every angle as his home, with his mum inside, warped from view._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have now read Gendry’s dream/memory sequence in it’s entirety. I imagine that he doesn’t actually dream it the same night he drinks the potion; it’s probably a night or two later. I wanted the full dream to be in this chapter because the next couple of chapters leave Gendry’s POV while I cover some ground elsewhere.
> 
> ***  
> Certain details from Pycelle’s lecture are based in reality (I hope none of you are studying for a history test right now). The fungus in the grain? It’s a real thing. Martin Luthor’s notes on the door that led to protestations, hence the Protestant branch of Christianity: True. Salem Witch Trials serving as a land grab and simultaneously being mean to women: Yeah...  
> Scotland is indeed littered with churches with clear glass windows. They used to have those colorful glass windows until the Scottish Reformation, when the glass windows were broken to declare breaking with the papacy. The windows were replaced with clear glass.  
> One example of a cathedral that defies this pattern is St Magnus Cathedral in Kirkwall, Orkney. Look it up, it’s beautiful. The Orkney islands are located off the northern coast of Scotland’s mainland, so it was a bit more removed from the unrest. St Magnus’s colorful windows survive to this day.


	10. The Hand II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned Stark is accompanies Gendry to St Mungo’s. The Hand meets with the Minister of Magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s a time jump. The chapter starts in April. Then it skips to June. I made sure to put the month in the first line of the new paragraph and a horizontal line in between, but let me know if I should just put in a header that just says ‘April’ or ‘June.’  
> I’ve renamed Robert “Sweetrobin” Arryn to Robin Arryn. Too many Robb/Roberts running around.

In April, Ned had finally managed to arrange for Gendry’s mother to be moved to a new room, under the care of Healer Clarysa Whitehill, an old family friend. He trusted her implicitly.

“He’ll be here shortly.” Loras stated when Ned had arrived at the school. “The first years have a lighter homework load this weekend, so it’s a good weekend for it. How’s your son doing? Brandon, isn’t it?” A good weekend for it. Ned wasn’t sure whether there was such a thing as a better or worse time to meet the mother the boy had long thought to be dead.

“How has he been since I was last here?” Ned asked to redirect Loras. He refused to think too long on Bran’s mysterious condition. The healers in Wintertown were at a loss, and had advised that Bran be transferred to St Mungo’s. So far, the healers at St Mungo’s were no closer to declaring a definitive diagnosis. They had been tossing around a theory of a new strain of Cerebrumous Spattergoit, but the symptoms just didn’t seem to match.

Loras simply shrugged in that insufferably effortless way he had about him.

“He’s doing well in classes. He’s a bit erratic in potions, or so I hear, but considering how useless his father was at them, it’s probably a miracle he’s any good at them at all.

“Tyrion doesn’t quite know what to do with him. One week he’ll comment on how Gendry could truly make something of himself with potions and the next he’s tearing out his hair because the dungeons have been smoked out with noxious fumes that shouldn’t have been possible.” Loras paused. “He’s managed some rather nice work in charms, too. Missandei seems to like him. She calls him a sweet boy.”

“And how has _he_ been?” Ned asked, stressing his question differently. Again, with the relaxed shrug.

“He seems just the same as ever in classes. His usual cheery self.” He shot Ned a look. “Although he’s been a bit more stiff with me. I’m pretty sure he still hasn’t forgiven me for not telling him.”

“It’s a fair sentiment.” Ned couldn’t help the dryness in his tone. Loras scoffed.

“ _Please_ , he’s a child. He’ll hold the grudge for a bit, but he’ll get over it at some point soon.” Loras paused, considering. “His housemates don’t seem to know what to make of him. At one point, I thought they were all warming to each other. But then there was that whole affair with the mirror, and they’ve been tiptoeing around him ever since.”

“The mirror?” Ned asked. “Not _that_ mirror, surely?” Loras nodded.

“The headmaster mentioned it to me as his head of house. Apparently he and a couple of his housemates stumbled onto it and he started pining over it.” Yet again, the insufferable shrug. “Like father, like son, I suppose.” Ned was gobsmacked.

“Do you mean to tell me,” Ned asked slowly. “That Stannis jumped through all those hoops to remove the mirror from the minister’s attentions, and Tywin decided to put it in a place where students could trip over it? That the _exact_ student who the mirror might most harm, was the _exact_ student who found it?” Loras winced and nodded.

“Yes.” He rushed to explain: “Tywin found out about it and put a stop to it. Warned him off. He mentioned it to me and I’ve kept an eye on him since. He didn’t try to visit it after that. And I even had Ser Artys tailing him after, just in case. For a glowing ghost, he’s rather good at not being noticed when he wants. The mirror’s gone from the castle now, anyway.” He cocked his head. “And anyway, it’s somewhat hopeful, isn’t it? Gendry was able to keep away when Tywin intervened. Robert never had that kind of self control.”

“Hopeful,” Ned echoed back dryly. In that moment, the knock on the door sounded and they turned to find the gangly first year in question standing in the doorway.

“Ready?” Ned asked. The boy nodded.

There wasn’t anything left for it but to go. Together, they retreated from Loras’s office, down the stair cases and around corners, through the entrance hall, the courtyard and down the slope to the gates to the school grounds. Once they were through the gates, Ned pulled his sleeve up and offered his hand.

“Hold on tight.”

Gendry, it seemed, had a fairly even keel. Most first-time apparitioners felt sick and disoriented. Frankly, most vomited after experiencing their first apparition. The boy looked a little unsteady to be sure, but otherwise took it in stride.

Then again, Ned suspected it probably wasn’t his first time, given his story of the man who had taken Gendry from his mother’s house. There were far too many unanswered questions regarding that night. Ned shook his head.

They were stood in an alleyway around the corner from their destination.

“I’m going to show you the muggle London visitor’s entrance. It’s fairly common for Yoren to escort students off school grounds whenever the need arises and he’s likely to floo you in. Yoren will be the one to bring you to visit during the school year, if you want. You can visit over the summer as well, if you choose. There are a couple of bus stops nearby, and there’s a Tube stop somewhere around here.”

And so he walked them through the process of visiting St Mungo’s. They stepped through the window of the condemned department store, Purge and Dowse, Ltd. Went to the fourth floor, to the Alysanne Targaryen Ward. There had been a debate after the war over whether to rename it, as was the fad post war. In the end, everyone agreed that Queen Alysanne’s life long work was what merited the ward’s name in the first place, and the actions of her descendants should not erase the former queen’s mission to relieve the suffering of others.

Ned carefully avoided looking towards the signs that pointed towards Bran’s room. They had set up a viewing room to prevent the spread of any possible infection, but Catelyn had insisted that the other children shouldn’t see their brother in such a state and had taken it upon herself to be his primary visitor. She was probably with him now, just a floor away, while Professors Luwin, Mordane and Syrio Forel wrangled the rest of the kids.

Per Ned’s prior arrangement, Healer Clarysa Whitehill expected them. They exchanged brief introductions and they continued past her.

“If you ever have a question or need anything while you’re here,” Ned muttered to Gendry. “Go to her, and only her. Understand?” The boy nodded. Ned led them down the corridor and stopped at a door with the label: ‘Thea Waters’

Gendry turned to him instead of going in.

“Sir, can I ask you something?” Ned internally hesitated. He had no doubt the boy had all sorts of questions. Many questions to which he didn’t know the answers, and many more to which he was unprepared. Aloud he simply said:

“Of course.”

“Why are you doing this?” Ned blinked at him. “I heard Professor Tyrell tell you not to, the day we met. And that man, Stannis Baratheon, doesn’t seem to want this. So, why?”

 _Guilt._ The nasty voice in his head thought. _Because I’m a_ _n indecisive_ _coward when it comes to my own_ _family_ _but I’m occupationally obligated to help you_.

Another voice surfaced, and Ned inwardly flinched:

 _Promise me_.

“The Stark family," he said instead. "Has a saying, words that we repeat to ourselves. ‘Winter is Coming.’ They remind us that hard times are always ahead. They remind us that we are stronger together when the winds of winter try to pull us apart.” He glanced over the boy’s shoulder at the door.

“Your mother can no longer live on her own. She cannot care for herself anymore, live independently. Some would say that makes her a burden. But when it comes to the people you love and who love you, I don’t believe such a thing exists.” He debated whether to elaborate. But the boy in front of him nodded with acceptance.

“Ready?” Ned didn’t know why he kept bothering to ask such a question. Nonetheless, the boy dutifully bobbed his head again and Ned opened the door. “Take your time.”

Ned settled into the chair in the corridor. Under other circumstances, he might have felt the need to accompany the boy for the first visit. But he’d already failed both of them before, and he’d be damned before he barged in on such a moment. Besides, for all of the boy’s reticence, he seemed to be thoughtful and attentive. He reminded Ned quite a bit of Jon.

No, he could not bring himself to intrude on such a moment. Not that Thea was likely to bring Gendry a fairy tale ending. If anything, he would need to prevail upon Loras to yet again keep a watch over Gendry.

Gods, just how much more convoluted could things get? Knowing the direction things had gone, Ned had just jinxed himself, so he shook his head and tried to dispel heavy thoughts of that night five years before.

No matter what Catelyn said, no matter what Robb or Jon did to try to impress him, it seemed reminders of Ned’s many failures were everywhere. No matter still what sweet, thoughtful thing Sansa did, or how much mischief Arya got herself into. Bran had been turning into quite the scholar before he had fallen ill, and Rickon was already wild.

To Ned’s dismay, he couldn’t quite remember whether Brandon had ever been as wild as Rickon at that age. As the older sibling, Ned supposed Brandon’s energy would have seemed like the ideal rather than too much or too little.

Had it really been, what – twelve, thirteen years since his father and Brandon had been killed? Over a decade since then-Professor Arryn had called Ned and Benjen to his office and handed them a copy of the Daily Prophet, complete with the gruesome scene playing on a loop of the Dragon Lord’s throne room?

And then perhaps a year or two after, on the heels of the rebellion, that damned prophecy came.

_Promise me, Ned._

He had lost any sense of time. One moment, he was seated in the chair outside Thea Waters’s room with echoes ringing through his ears. The next moment, an eerily familiar pair of blue eyes were looking askance at him. Gods, Ned couldn’t decide whether he felt he was a first year or a hundred years old.

They took their leave, and Ned watched Gendry carefully, almost reverently, tucked a Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper into his pocket. A parting gift, it seemed.

Ned dropped Gendry back off at school and watched as the boy retreated back into the castle. Even from behind, he could see that the boy’s hands made suspiciously frequent swipes at his face. Ned made sure to visit briefly with Yoren, who had taken it in stride, seemingly eager for April to end and for the weather to relent and bring milder conditions. Nonetheless, Yoren had promised to discreetly take Gendry back for future visits.

* * *

June rolled around. Ned finally felt as ready as he’d ever be, which still left him feeling woefully unprepared. He had winced when he had checked his calendar and realized it was June, and he’d taken longer to prepare than he had ever intended. Brandon had always told him he moved glacially.

The weather was turning and summer was creeping into the spring. He decided to walk to the ministry, rather than floo or apparate.

Something fluttered in the corner of his vision and he turned his head to see Waymar Royce’s owl coming towards him. To his chagrin, he had to flap his hand around his face to bat away the owl that had tried to swoop in a series of dives around his head. Royce’s sodding owl still refused to leave Ned alone. She would disappear for days or weeks at a time and lull him into a false sense of relief. Then, she would reappear and pester him without reprieve. He made a mental note to talk to Royce’s family about it to see whether they could lend a hand. He made it to the telephone booth with the owl shut outside.

There was nothing else for it. He had already gone round and round the topic with Stannis. Even now, he felt certain Stannis continued to keep some of what he knew or suspected secret. He had argued back and forth with Loras. Butted heads with Robert’s junior undersecretary to get himself onto the minister’s schedule. But it was time to bring it to the minister himself.

It was as if Cersei knew that Ned wanted to discuss something of import with Robert, and was deliberately subverting him in any way she could. But Robert needed to know, so Ned had gone around her with ease and simply asked Robert for an afternoon. Cersei had grit her teeth, but could do nothing. A junior undersecretary had their limits.

“Ned!” Robert’s voice boomed when he approached the minister’s office. Seated at the desk just outside the minister’s office, Cersei sniffed. Robert thumped Ned’s back, rattling Ned’s whole body. “Where in the seven hells have you been? I hardly see you for five years so I drag you back here. Your office is _here_ again – and you still manage to disappear on me! Where the hells do you go?” Ned had made a point of making visits to Bran at St Mungo’s of late in order to cover for his arrangements regarding Thea Waters. He half expected Cersei to make some type of comment about it, or even Benjen’s whereabouts in an attempt to derail his meeting with the minister, but she decided to sniff and shuffle some papers.

“I’ve been here,” Ned simply replied. “Picking up where Jon left off.” Another rattling thump. “Care for a walk, minister?” That earned him a loud guffaw.

“Trying to get me to lose weight, Ned? Fair enough.”

“Minister,” Cersei broke in. “You have meetings to attend soon and you’ll need to prepare for them. The senior undersecretary wants to meet.” But Robert waved a dismissive hand at her. It was plainly a cheap attempt anyway; her disdain for Senior Undersecretary Mace Tyrell was thinly veiled.

“I’ll be taking lunch out of the office, today.” He steamrolled her as she opened her mouth. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time.” He guided Ned away without bothering to watch the corners of Cersei’s mouth dip downwards.

Ned had casually taken the lead, and headed towards the visitor’s entrance. Robert narrowed his eyes. Without needing to exchange any words, they drew their wands and promptly changed their robes, transfiguring them into muggle business attire.

It turned out Royce’s owl had somehow sensed Ned’s intention to emerge from the booth soon after, because she was waiting for him. Robert laughed at him as Ned ducked away from the owl’s repeated dives.

“Apparently Royce claimed she was a handful. You might want to talk to the Royces, though. They might be able to rein her in.” Though there were muggles around, Robert drew his wand and subtly sent a mild stinging hex at her. It stung one of her feet and she gave an indignant screech as she pulled out of her dive and finally left.

It was as the two of them traced a path along the busy London streets that Robert turned to him in earnestness.

“Why all the cloak and dagger, Ned?”

“Minister?”

Robert snorted dismissively. They joined the lunch hour flow of pedestrians passing by Saint Paul’s Sept.

“If you think I can’t read you after all we’ve gone through, you’ve lost it. I haven’t seen you act this way since the war.” Ned could only sigh in response.

Robert was popularly known to be brash. Impulsive and thick. While Robert was indeed brash and impulsive, he had never been as stupid as people assumed. It was this quality that Ned had most appreciated growing up. Robert genuinely spent large amounts of time pursuing shallow thoughts and projects while at school. It lulled people into a false sense of superiority. It had lulled the prince and then the Dragon Lord into a false impression that Robert was a jumped up teenage boyfriend with delusions of grandeur.

To be fair, Robert did indeed dabble in fantasies, but this did not preclude him from being able to see reality when it counted. It was Robert’s ability to surprise people that Ned hoped would see them through again. He may as well get right to it.

“It’s about Thea.” Ned had to stop and turn back to look at Robert, who had stopped dead in his tracks. They had been nearing the Millennium Bridge, and a few suited muggles muttered their annoyances, swerving to avoid walking into Robert.

“What about her? She’s still alright, isn’t she?” Robert asked, finally catching up to rejoin Ned.

 _Alright_ was a generous term to apply to Thea, but Ned nodded and continued.

“She’s still the same,” he assured the minister. “But it’s about her case. I found her son. Your son.”

Again Robert stopped, and again other pedestrians grumbled as they trekked new pathways around the interruption to their walk.

“What? How? Why now, when you couldn’t before?” It had been clear Robert’s mind was racing with questions. “I sent your department – all the _Ministry_ – I sent everyone out to find him…”

“That’s why I’ve asked you out here,” Ned cut in before Robert could spiral into more questions. “To explain everything.”

And so he did.

He shared what little he had learned of the mysterious wizard Gendry had mentioned. The man who had taken the boy from Thea’s house from under the noses of the wyverns. Neither he nor Robert had any clue who it might be. The mystery irked them but seeing as they hadn’t harmed the boy, they supposed it was a question for another day.

“Unless,” a sudden thought struck him. It would certainly explain the _how_. But surely things would have turned out differently after.

“What?” Robert asked.

“You don’t think it could be …” Ned trailed. Robert’s face pinched and Ned was glad he didn’t say the name aloud. For a moment, Ned braced himself for an outburst. To his surprise, Robert sat back and was silent for a time.

“It would certainly explain some things,” Robert mirrored Ned’s own thoughts. “But it begs a whole host of new questions.” The minister shook his head.

“Let me think on it. When I get back, I’ll see what I can find out. I’m still owed a few favors here and there.”

Ned continued his explanation after that. He took Robert through Royce’s last days. Royce’s attempts to gain a promotion from hit wizard to the auror department and his hopes of cracking the Waters’ Case. The note from Royce to Arryn that Ned had found, leading to an address in Flea Bottom. He took Robert through Arryn’s last days, picking up where Royce had left off. Arryn’s efforts to track down possible candidates to the prophecy. He shared what little he’d gleaned from his brief, brusque, exchange with Stannis.

“So Stannis has been poking around, too?” Robert asked.

They had parked themselves on a bench and watched as a bird of some kind struggled to fly. It seemed to have a badly healed injury to it’s wing, with some feathers sticking in odd directions. It was a wonder it had survived this long. As it was, it was currently beset upon by some seagulls that had discovered it’s pickings at a sandwich crust.

“It seems that way,” Ned hedged. He had no interest in bringing up Robert’s brothers any more than strictly necessary. “It seems there are at least two at Hogwarts, and I’ve installed another somewhere relatively safe.”

They paused and watched as the small bird abandoned it’s find and crookedly flew off, leaving it to the seagulls.

“There’s another. In France,” Robert admitted. Ned turned to him, a little miffed. He had known about Edric, truly. But he had somehow completely forgotten about him. “Don’t look at me like that. I -” he broke off and huffed for a moment. “I know I’m not what I once was. If Lyanna were alive today, she’d be disgusted to look at me. And I’m not talking about how fat I’ve gotten.” He trailed off and stared at the Thames, becoming lost. Ned decided to rein him in.

“The one in France. Are they safe?” Robert refocused and nodded.

“Yes. He’s taken his stepfather’s name. Seems his mother likes the English, because after she and I parted ways she married one by the name of Storm. Anyway, he wants for nothing and lives a posh life. He’s at Beauxbatons. With his mother’s family and his stepfather all looking out for him, he’s probably the safest of the lot.” Ned nodded. It was one less child for him to make arrangements for.

“You sidestepped my question earlier,” Robert drew Ned’s attention back. “Where, specifically, is Enid’s daughter?”

“I’ve put her with Thea’s son.”

“In London?” Robert asked incredulously. “Has it occurred to you that setting up a half-way house for possible Promised Children in the home of muggles who live in London, of all places, was a stupid thing to do? There are too many eyes, they can’t protect them.”

“I thought the same, initially.” Ned responded halfheartedly. “But he’s been with that family for two or three years now, and he’s been doing well, all things considered. And he’s been shunted from one place to another so much, I’d hate to uproot him all over again … What?”

“And if the wyverns come knocking?”

“Arryn cast certain protective charms around the foster family’s place. They have their limits of course, but it’s the best option for the time being.” It was no surprise when Robert shook his head, his beard swaying in the breeze.

“And Arryn is fucking dead. Fat load of help his charms did him. He and the girl should be brought to Storm’s End -”

“So what?” Ned challenged. “So the wyverns will know precisely who and where to target? It doesn’t matter how Baratheon they do or don’t look, it’s common knowledge that Stannis only has one child. A sudden tripling of the number of kids living with him would give the game away.” The two of them stared at each other for a moment.

“Right now, the wyverns know certain aspects of the prophecy, but they don’t know the whole thing. They’ll know certain children are likely candidates. They’ll know where some of those children are. They know my children are among them. They know Shireen is among them. They know Robin Arryn is among them but he’s across the pond surrounded by Tullys and all the faculty of Ilvermorny. He’s too far and well-protected by the MaCUSA.

“They know that you’ve fathered several children at least, and that those children are therefore candidates. The good thing is that there’s no simple way for them to know who all of the kids are. But they won’t stop. They found Thea, and they found Enid. They’ll definitely know about Edric, given that he was never a secret. Grouping your children together in a known location means they’ll be a combined target. I don’t think Stannis will thank you for placing a bigger spotlight on Shireen.”

“So you could find room at Winterfell, then! What’s all this about a pack sticking togeth-”

“Absolutely not. Cat won’t stand it. She’s already-” Ned broke himself off, not wanting to betray Cat’s confidence.

When Ned had originally brought Jon home, she had initially taken to the child with nothing but love, affection, and heartbreak. She had doted on both their boys without fail, and had been eager to give them additional siblings.

But the Waters Case had seen much of their early contentedness spoil.

Thea Waters’ attack and Gendry’s disappearance had awoken a primal fear within Catelyn, to protect her children. And given Jon’s specific parentage, she had interpreted him to be an additional beacon of danger to all the rest of the kids.

Catelyn had urged Ned to send the kids across the Atlantic. To pack up all of Winterfell and go; the rest of Westeros could jog on as far as she was concerned. Wintertown Academy was still too dangerous, in her opinion.

Her uncle Brynden Tully had raised his family in the States, and she had fond memories of summers spent with family there. Even her younger brother Edmund had moved to the States and was starting fresh there. Ned and Cat had taken the family for holidays there, in an attempt to sate Cat's yearning. But the holidays spent visiting her Tully relatives, traipsing across the pond had only served to sharpen her wish to move the family away. To send the children to school abroad at least.

Cat had twisted and wrangled with Ned to send the kids to Ilvermorny, where her uncle Brynden Tully taught. Hells, even Ned’s mentor Jon Arryn had, during the war, sent his own son, and her cousin, Robin Arryn, to Ilvermorny.

But Ned had argued back that that was during the war, and that Jon Arryn had publicly excused his actions of sending his son to a different school so as to give his son space. That to have one’s own father as their professor was unlikely to be seen as fair. Things were different, too, because Robin Arryn was much older than their children; sending him far off didn't seem so strange.

Ned had further argued that as the Hand of the Minister, it would have been beyond poor judgment to send the kids to a school abroad. The war was over. He had been one of the prime people who had contributed to tearing Westeros apart and now he was duty-bound to help put it back together. He needed to walk the walk and show that Westeros was safe from the Targaryen monarchy. The Targaryens had been either killed or chased from Westeros, so life needed to continue. And so Catelyn had lost her battle to send the kids to Ilvermorny or beyond.

They had compromised in the end, and arranged to convince Professor Luwin to put his retirement on hold and to teach the kids at Winterfell. Professor Mordane had obliged them by becoming their astronomy professor and potions mistress.

Even with the compromise to educate the kids at Winterfell, Catelyn’s fears would not die down completely. From what they could tell, Thea Waters had intended on homeschooling her son until such time as it was deemed safe. Thea had been a bright witch, and would have taken precautions regarding their safety. And suddenly she had been rendered a mere shell of what she had been; a wiped slate sitting in silence at St Mungo’s, whiling away her days while her son had remained missing.

It was then that Catelyn had begun to grow impassive towards Jon. Ned couldn’t tell whether she was aware of her prejudice or not. He supposed it didn’t matter because at the end of the day, she had slowly, gradually begun to withdraw from Jon. And with Bran at St Mungo’s, she had become positively cold to him. In a perverse way, Ned was glad that Catelyn spent so much time with Bran, because now she was largely ignoring all the kids equally, and Jon didn’t feel so singled out anymore.

Ned needed to level with Catelyn, and soon. He was frankly taken aback that she was capable of starting out so tender with Jon and then granting him nothing but averted eyes and abrupt dismissals. Ned had thought, of all the things on his plate, that doing his best by Jon would be the simplest, and the most straight forward.

 _Promise me, Ned_.

He shook himself out of his reverie.

“Cat’s already terrified of what people would do to the kids if someone were to try something. An additional Promised candidate might make Winterfell too tempting a target to ignore. It was all I could do to convince her to keep them in Westeros as it is. She had wanted us all to move to America. Actually, I’m becoming increasingly inclined to agree with her and send them all to Ilvermorny, since Royce, Arryn, and Enid Welsh. And with Bran ill and Benjen missing …”

That last point seemed to finally convince Robert some. The mystery surrounding Bran’s condition was being studied by the healers at St Mungo’s, but Robert had also assigned an auror to investigate it. Just in case it was some sort of curse cast by an old loyalist.

“Alright,” Robert ground out. Ned was heaving a sigh when Robert shot him a look.

“Not so fast. I still want to see these foster people. These muggles. I’ve got a right to meet the people who are raising my kids. I know,” he took a shuddering breath.

“I know I’m not exactly father material. I know that I won’t ever be, and looking back, I’m pretty sure I never was. But they’re mine, godsdammit and I deserve to know they’re being looked after.”

Robert had him there. Ned nodded.

“I agree. The boy deserves to be in the loop, too. He’s curious. I’ll arrange things so that you can meet everyone once we’ve prepared. I’ll have to update the muggle PM as well. It’ll all take time -”

“No, you’re not _listening_.” Robert dispensed their charade of pretending to be interested in the bird with the crooked wing that had settled in the shrubs across from them. He turned to fully face Ned.

“Arryn found the boy a fucking year ago. He’s been dead since about a day after he found the kid, so he gets a pass. But Stannis found him weeks after. And you’ve known about him since last year, too. But I’m only finding out _today_ that you and a bunch of other tossers have been making all kinds of decisions for me.

" _I’m_ the father. I’m the sodding _Minister!_ ” He stuck a fat finger in Ned’s face.

“Don’t think for a moment that I’m not fucking _furious_ with you, Ned. If you were anyone else, I’d have hexed you ten times over by now. I’m seeing these muggles. I’m seeing the girl. And the school year’s over in a week or two. I’m seeing the boy once the summer holidays start.”

“Robert, I’m not arguing that you don’t deserve to meet them,” Ned tried a bracing tone. “But you remember how Royce always charged in before it was time. That’s probably what got him killed. And Arryn was murdered, too. Their deaths will have been in vain if we don’t learn caution from what happened to them.”

“Don’t pull that shit on me, Ned. _Fine_ , tell the PM whatever it is you’ve got to tell him. He was a bland man if ever I saw one, but I won’t stop you. But I’m meeting them. _Tomorrow._ ”

Ned knew it was a losing battle, but he tried anyway:

“I promised the girls I’d take them to see Bran tomorrow. It’s his birthday soon, and Arya wants to show him -”

“Now you’re just making excuses. It’s not like your boy appreciates being shown anything these days, anyway. Your girl might as well show whatever it is to the dragon skulls in the Red Keep for all the reaction she’ll get.” Ned flinched, but Robert wasn’t done.

“I’m your boss, and by the Seven Hells, I’m giving you an _order_. You’ll see the fucking PM tonight. You’ll tell him whatever it is you think is so important.

“Tomorrow, you’ll take your daughters to St Mungo’s and drop them off. You’ll come to the ministry. We’ll go to these muggles. The children are of my blood. I’ll put up some proper protections around them. Arryn was a great wizard, but you can’t beat charms backed by blood.

“You’re going to be my secret keeper – don’t give me that look, Ned. You have as much skin in this as I do – maybe more – so you’ll do it.”

Robert’s tone had become strident as he rattled off his orders to Ned, but now he lowered his voice.

“One more thing. Benjen may be missing, but he’s not the only ranger worth his salt. You’ll send a ranger or two to Essos. We need to keep an eye on the dragonspawn.”

“Robert -”

“Shut up. I agreed not to hunt down that arse Connington and let him take the Prince’s children away and hide them somewhere. Gods know I felt bad for that little girl – what was her name? The one Lorch and the Mountain fought over? And I agreed to leave the Dragon Lord’s children alone. But that was before Thea. And now three more people have been murdered, and they’re all people who guarded the candidates of the prophecy.

“Understand this, Ned. War is the only thing I was ever truly good at. I’m never going to be a father. Not a good one, anyway. But I’ll make sure the dragonspawn never set foot in Westeros. The way I see it, they’re the most likely danger to the prophecy candidates.”

“Rhaegar’s children may well be candidates themselves -” Ned tried to say, but was cut off.

“Aerys’s decision to remove Rhaegar as heir was only ever a rumor! At _most_ , Rhaegar _thought_ about deposing his father and therefore committing treason to the crown. But _thoughts aren’t_ _actions_. And at the very least, he was a shithead, anyway. Lyanna was barely fifteen years old when he took her! Gods know, I had started to feel strange dating her as a seventh year about to graduate. Rhaegar was almost a decade older and should have known better! He had kids and a fucking _wife!_ ”

Ned tried to shoot a passing muggle woman pushing a pram a reassuring look, but he didn’t succeed. She hurried away and Ned shot Robert a look, hoping to tell him to keep it down. He had the decency to lower his voice just a touch. He huffed.

“I’ve gone on and on before about how much of a shite father I’d make. But I’d like to think I’d draw the line somewhere. I wouldn’t leave them for a child, for one. Maybe I'd draw it at leaving my wife and kids alone at Dragonstone where they could be summoned to the Red Keep by those loyal to the King. Maybe I’d take steps to prevent them from falling into the care of my sadistic father who enjoys watching people be tortured to death!

“I’d like to think I’d have left them with more protection than Connington – a single fucking person – it’s no wonder he couldn’t protect both the children and Elia. I’d like to think I’d have the decency of getting them out of the castle to safety _before_ I abscond with a child and disappear for months and months while I do Gods-know-what to her and a war kicks off…” As Robert ranted on, Ned thought back.

Ned had always struggled to reconcile the memories of Rhaegar from school and everything that had happened since Harrenhal. Prince Rhaegar had been a sixth and seventh year when he and Robert were just starting Hogwarts as first and second years.

The crown prince had been upstanding and charismatic, all purple eyes and shining silver hair. He had been brilliant – the star of Ravenclaw. His friendship with Gryffindor’s most popular student, Arthur Dayne, had been famous. Together, the two of them had led a rivalry on the quidditch pitch that was unparalleled in both competitiveness and positive spirit. But then, years later, he had helped throw the Harrenhal Ball. And everything had changed.

Ned clamped down on such memories – so many memories had been overtaking him of late.

“… Lyanna was just a fifth year-!”

“I know how old she was.” Ned cut in. He’d heard this diatribe before. Besides, Robert’s ire and the direction of his ranting led to dangerous territory Ned had no interest in navigating.

 _Promise me, Ned. Promise me_.

Robert took the hint and refocused on the matter at hand.

“The dragonspawn can roam around Essos and eat baguettes and pierogies and whatever else they please. But if any of them dares to come to Westeros, I’ll give them war. I’ll show them just how their father and grandfather lost his crown. I’ll make them remember Summerhall. If any of them dares to try to restore the Iron Throne, I’ll see to it they end by their own house words.”

By the Gods. Robert was sober – had been ever since Stannis had removed the Mirror of Erised from his office and Ned had told him to get his head on straight. This sober, bitter, post-mirror, post-intervention version of Robert was vindictive. Ned wouldn't be surprised to find out that somewhere, in some alternate universe, a version of Robert could stand over what had befallen Rhaegar's family and laugh.

“I told you before, that I felt a war coming.” Robert had relaxed somewhat into a ponderous state. “People keep going ‘round saying how powerful I am for killing Rhaegar and Aerys. Sure, I suppose they’re right to an extent, but only to an extent. Some people who think he’s dead think I’m this paragon of modesty. I’m not. Other people who think he’s dead think I’m just hoping he’s alive just so I can kill him again, and they aren’t exactly wrong. The people who think he’s alive think I’m no better than a usurper who got a lucky hit. They think the Dragon Lord is out there, somewhere, licking his wounds …”

“What do you think?” Ned prompted.

“That’s just it. I didn’t miss. I _know_ I didn’t. And I know he should have died. I had killed people before. I’ve killed people since. I know what that feels like.” He swallowed.

“My soul, it’s – it didn’t split when I battled the Dragon Lord. Well, I mean it did, but it felt _different_. It split when I killed Rhaegar. That was a proper duel. He and I went at it for a while, and it was a battle so it wasn’t exactly murder, but it split anyway. With Rhaegar, my soul split a little, but the pieces stayed there. With the others I’ve killed before and since, it’s the same thing.”

The two of them had known each other most of their lives at this point. He had seen Robert happy, sad, angry and most things at one point or another. But it had been a long time since he’d seen Robert look this lost.

“I’ve got a soul riddled with cracks, Ned. It’s all in pieces and it’s like they’re all floating around, trying to stick themselves back together but they don’t fit together anymore.

“When I fired my wand at Aerys … my soul split, but I don’t know what happened to the piece that broke off. It’s like it just disappeared. At first I thought it was different because I’d killed a certain number of people by then and I started kicking myself for not keeping track of the exact number. And then I wondered whether I’d made some sort of horcrux. But that was wrong, because you can’t make a horcrux and not know it. You’d feel it in whatever object it ended up latching on to. I went round and round the Red Keep, trying to make sure whether I’d made one or not.”

“But you don’t think you did,” Ned answered. He knew Robert well enough. Robert would have gone to Ned and Professor Arryn the moment he truly thought he’d done something that monumental. Robert nodded.

“Something else happened to it.” Robert answered. “But I don’t know what. It’s been _killing me for years_. Did Aerys somehow destroy it, or maybe take it with him? But he was in no condition to do anything with it; I know that much.” The two of them sat in silence for a few minutes.

“If Aerys destroyed it,” Ned reasoned aloud. “It could explain why the other pieces of your soul cannot mend. From what I understand, mending your soul is possible, but exceptionally difficult if it isn’t whole. If he somehow took it, what could he have possibly done with it?” They were left with frustratingly few answers.

“I’ll do it,” Ned finally spoke, returning to the most pressing topic. “I’ll drop the girls off at the hospital tomorrow in the morning. I’ll meet you at the ministry, and I’ll take you to meet the family who’s looking after them.”

“I’ll reinforce the protective spells that Arryn placed.” Robert added. Ned agreed. Robert had never been considered to be the brightest student, but he had never slacked off when it came to the practical application of magic.

“The wyverns have started to move faster of late, but they’re still careful to keep to the shadows,” Ned continued. “If you’re up to it, I’ve half a mind to gather you, me, and Stannis together for a meeting when we get back to the ministry from Flea Bottom tomorrow. I think it’s about time we plan out exactly how we’ll clean house.” Robert shot him a side glance and smiled.

“It’ll be dangerous,” Ned added in warning though he already knew the answer.

“Excellent,” Robert clapped his hands. “I’ve been itching for a fight for years.”


	11. The Hand III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hand of the Minister pays a visit to the muggle Prime Minister. Ned gives a lesson in chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! This story is something that I really enjoyed spending time on in 2020. It’s been a form of fun escapism. I’d say that I’m hopeful that 2021 can’t be worse than 2020, but I remember thinking that about 2016, and 2017, 2018 … I kind of hate 2021 already.

After leaving Robert at the ministry, Ned Stark started to make his way to visit the muggle Prime Minister. He walked most of the way, wanting the air.

His initial introduction to the PM had gone within the realm of the expected. The poor muggle man had only been in office for a bit under a year at this point. In quick succession, he had had his entire worldview overturned, and a series of strange men traipsing through his office upon the announcement of a sentient painting.

The weather was absurdly nice, considering how heavy he felt. Gods, time was flying by. Ned felt as though he was mired in some cruel dream where he was forced to watch the world spin around him at a pace he could never hope to match. There was a sense of irony, that he was lauded as a fast-acting leader during the war. One of the minds to help drive the crown to it’s end and the dragons from Westeros.

In truth, he didn’t think he was anything close to a mastermind at war. He’d made a few good calls, had a lot of luck, and had simply managed to survive where others had not. After all of that, he was now floundering in a world that was supposed to be peaceful. Simpler. He had been blind.

As kids, his older brother Brandon had always told him that Ned spent too much time ruminating over useless things. Over the differences between right and wrong. Whether it was ever alright to resort to dark magic. Why some figures in history were lauded for using dark magic in a time of need to do something well-intentioned while others were cast as villains for the same deeds, but in different circumstances. Under what circumstances it was right or wrong to use it. Where the line was, between light and dark magic. Who determined where that line was drawn.

“ _You’re a real downer, you know that?_ ” Brandon would often say. “ _Come on, let me teach you one of the hexes I read about._ _Did you know King Theon left a whole collection of specialized jinxes, hexes and curses?_ _…_ ” But Brandon had always had so much of the wolf-blood their father would talk about.

A sort of inner heat that drove them through the cold. It was as though Brandon embodied Winterfell itself, with the heat of the springs below fueling him no matter how cold it got.

Ned had always felt he needed to work at everything for such a long time, just to catch up to Brandon, it seemed. And Lyanna. The pair of them had always caused some sort of ruckus at Winterfell, and their father had always seemed so proud.

“ _That’s the wolf-blood, for you,_ ” Father would say to Ned. “ _It’s the blood that runs in you, too._ ” When Ned expressed his doubt: “ _You and Brandon are as different as fire and ice, and you are still brothers. In him, it drives him towards impulsiveness, his recklessness. You run cold; there’s ice in your veins._ _We only survive winter by banding together. And winter is always coming_ _._ ”

“ _I’m so much slower to pick things up than Brandon and Lyanna,_ ” Ned had whined. “ _It’s not fair, I’m older than her._ ”

“ _Glaciers are slow,_ ” Father had answered. “ _And here in the North, they shape the land. They carve mountain passes, sharpen them to points, or grind them into valleys._ _Never underestimate the colder tendencies of our family._ ”

The wolf-blood had indeed run thick for Brandon. Lyanna had a touch of it. Father, too. It had driven them all to early graves. Meanwhile Ned had been rambling around Hogwarts while his world had listed further and further to the side, until it was too late and everything had come crashing down. He could only hope he had done half as well in the aftermath as they would have done.

But for all of his self-recriminations, even Ned had to admit there were too many factors beyond his control.

His investigation in to Thea Waters’ attack had been a sham, even moreso than he had previously thought. Like some putrid onion, each layer peeled back to reveal a more sordid state of affairs. He had never been able to find all of the culprits. Some were rotting in the black cells of Azkaban. Others were still at large. Even back then, Ned had felt worn down. No matter how he rallied the department, finding Thea’s missing son had become an increasingly hopeless endeavor.

And here he was, back in the boggy mire of the Ministry, haunted by the scene of a wrecked living room and Thea Waters sprawled on the floor while wyverns fled from him. Cowards. They proclaimed to work for some great and noble cause yet refused to stand by their actions.

Ned shook himself back into the present. It was far past time for the muggle Prime Minister to be brought on board.

“Evening, Minister,” Ned greeted Terrence Buckland, who cocked his head.

“If you say so,” he murmured. He stood and came around from his desk. The two settled into chairs by the hearth. “What’s happened?” Right to the point. Good.

“I’ve come to inform you that the Ministry of Magic believes that the death of that septon, Septon Hightower, was not by happenstance.” Minister Buckland stared at him.

“What are you talking about? The septon in the news? He died of some sort of heart attack. It’s hardly even newsworthy. The only reason it’s being covered so much is because he was so beloved by the clergy.” He paused. “Unless you’re saying he was killed with magic?” Ned nodded.

“We believe so, correct.” He continued. “My department is currently looking into the possibility that Septon Hightowers’ death was arranged, rather than the result of some health issue.”

The minister continued to stare at him.

Ned internally braced himself. Septon Hightower was no true muggle, since he hailed from a prominent branch of one of the most prestigious noble families in Westeros. But as a squib, his options had been limited and he had opted for a life of holy devotion, made all the easier by his upbringing in Oldtown.

“So you’ve come from the magical world to tell me that someone magical has arranged the death – has murdered – an old septon? Why? Who was he?” Ned sighed.

“The answer to that requires some explanation.” He deftly ignored the minister’s put upon expression. No doubt the PM was starting to grow weary of the many long tales that served to contextualize basic events.

“I mentioned that I was the Hand before, several years ago, before Jon Arryn took over the department?” Buckland nodded. “I became Hand after Robert’s Rebellion ten or twelve years ago, which Jon explained to you.” Again, Buckland nodded. “I left about five years ago, to return home.” He came to a stilted pause, unsure how to continue. Minister Buckland had no such qualms.

“Why?”

“I,” he hesitated. “I wanted to spend time with my family.” The minister barked a laugh and took up a pen from his desk. He started twirling it through his fingers.

“You know, I may be just a muggle, ignorant to the ways of your world,” Buckland mused, “but we _do have_ politics here. Wanting to spend time with the wife, kids, or grand kids is about the oldest excuse to duck out of a scandal in the book. It’s right after the excuse of needing to take care of one’s health, but you’re a bit young for that.” He tilted his head in a clear sign of judgmental disappointment. Ned was surprised at Buckland’s willingness to sass him, but he supposed it came with the territory of having strange people waltzing in and out of an otherwise immaculately planned out schedule.

“It’s true,” Ned offered, somewhat weakly. “I wanted to be with them.” He paused and drew a breath. Neither Minister Buckland nor Ned himself had time to waste. “But,” the Buckland gave a tiny, irritatingly smug smile. “There was a case. It caused me to reevaluate some things. Prompted my resignation. The Waters Case.” He was getting bogged down. He tried starting anew.

“About a decade ago, after the war ended, a prophecy came out. We call it the Frogg Prophecy.”

“It foretells of a child destined to defeat the Dragon Lord.” The minister recited to him.

Ned gaped for a moment while the minister flashed another smile, this time unapolagetically smug.

“Your predecessor – or should I say successor? Jon Arryn mentioned it.” Of course.

“Yes, well. The Frogg Prophecy came out. It was meant to be kept a secret. The war was just ending, you see. And the prophecy tells of a child meant to defeat the Dragon Lord in the future. A future that contains a Dragon Lord to be defeated. Westeros had already been shaken to its very foundations, and the thought that he might return was terrifying enough without the knowledge that our fates rested with that of a child.

“Immediately, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon and myself took steps to try to keep it all quiet. There were plenty of loyalists who would gladly support the Dragon Lord’s return. If they heard the details of the Frogg Prophecy, then all they had to do was nip the Dragon Lord’s foe in the bud.”

Buckland leaned forward.

“You keep talking circles around it, but what does this prophecy actually _say?_ ” Ned briefly contemplated whether to acquiesce before drawing his wand. The length of poplar was perfectly straight, and he drew strength from its unbending nature.

Nedinwardly smiled at the minister’s look of awe as he conjured what looked like a plain, unassuming basin. Drawing a silvery strand from his temple, Ned batted it into the basin, and drew it up again. There was no need to unduly test Terrence Buckland by attempting to convince him to dive headfirst into the pensieve. A simple look would do. If anything, he did not what to overwhelm the man. He drew the silvery strand up again and it bubbled before taking shape.

A woman’s head formed up from the pensieve, causing Buckland to jerk back in his seat. Her eyes snapped open and she gasped, and Buckland gave a little yelp and sat back. She blinked her bloodshot, bulging eyes and gasped again.

“ ‘ _The Dragon Lord shall return. As the Dragon awakens, he shall spread his wings and cast shadows of night. The Dragon Lord cannot hope to contain the terrors, for only the dead know of the dark. But dragons have their foes. And so the Dragon Lord will find his… Out of many, only One will be chosen. Whose brothers and sisters will be scattered, hunted. Born to a father who defied him; to a mother lost to all who knew her…_ _Defended with ice and saved with sacrifice._ _One brought to bear with a soul, stitched and mended. One given betrayal. One gifted with loyalt_ _y_ _… None but the Promised can hope to triumph against the_ _night_ _and bring the_ _d_ _awn for the living._ _The Promised One alone can bring the_ _d_ _awn if they die for the_ _d_ _awn.’ ”_

The woman’s head wavered and melted back into the pensieve, leaving only the swirling, silvery threads of smoke. Ned dispelled the pensieve and sat back, tucking his wand back into his robes.

“She’s one of Westeros’ forefront seers.” He allowed the minister to digest the prophecy’s words for a moment.

“This,” the minister tried. “This thing you’ve shown me. Is it like a recording?”

“It’s a memory.”

“Your memory?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t memories unreliable? How can you be sure what you’ve pulled from your head is accurate?” Muggles, always so doubtful.

Ned gave a small smile.

“Magic.”

Buckland didn’t look very impressed with his answer, nor very reassured, so Ned drew his wand again and conjured a steaming pot of tea and two teacups. To his surprise, the PM seemed to take even less comfort from the gesture, and was giving Ned a queer look that was difficult to interpret. He nonetheless accepted the teacup and made a visible attempt to relax some.

It took a minute or two, but once the minister seemed ready for him to continue, Ned plunged on.

“Despite the efforts of Robert, Jon Arryn and myself, some of the details of the prophecy became known. The three of us and the seer were the only ones present at the time, but it was possible that bits of it might have been overheard. We hadn’t had time to ensure privacy before the vision overcame her, so there was only so much to be done. And with word of the Dragon Lord’s return came a return of the fear. Many old loyalists were determined to find this child and destroy them before they had a chance to grow and become a true threat.

“Suddenly, people who had fought for the rebellion were scared that their child would be hunted by wyverns, and they were right. We managed to keep most of the details a secret. Most people only heard bits or pieces of the prophecy, and there came to be a lot of misinformation involved.”

The Prime Minister broke in.

“Can’t you just figure out which kid fits all those parameters?” Ned sighed.

“Even with accurate knowledge of the full prophecy, you heard it, it’s vague. At the moment, it’s too early to point to any specific child and label them as the Promised One. The prophecy itself makes it clear there are many candidates, but only one will be chosen.”

“They’ll have siblings,” the PM attempted to reason aloud. “And their father will have defied your Dragon Lord. And they’ll have a ‘lost’ mother, so she’ll have presumably died.” Ned shook his head in response, already hating having to spend yet more time dwelling upon the blasted prophecy. Much longer and he’d twist his mind into an unsolvable knot.

“There’s no guarantee that the Promised One will have siblings that already exist. Perhaps the Promised will be a younger child and ignored. Perhaps they will be the oldest, and we’ll all focus on children who currently, right now, have siblings. Their father will have defied the Dragon Lord – but we have no way to be sure that it specifically refers to having fought for the rebellion. What if some man defied King Aerys at some point earlier? It could be the son of some childhood friend of Aerys’ a lifetime ago.”

Ned was pleased to at least see the Minister’s eyes widen at the conundrum posed by the prophecy.

“And when will their mother die?” Ned shook his head again. “Are they already ‘lost,’ or will that happen sometime in the future? They’ll be given betrayal, they’ll be given loyalty. But everyone is given those things at one time or another.”

The minister was narrowing his eyes at Ned again, however.

“You may not know who it is definitively,” the muggle mused before pouncing. “But I think you have a short list, or even a specific candidate in mind, don’t you?”

Perhaps the man’s instincts were simply that good. But if Ned didn’t know any better, he would swear this damned man was a master at legilimency. Or perhaps Ned was simply that transparent.

Again, yet again, Ned heaved a sigh. Cat was always telling him he sighed too much. He had better continue before he overwhelmed the minister.

“There were multiple attacks on children whose fathers had fought for the rebellion.” Ned determinedly sidestepped the minister’s question. It was more of a comment anyway, he told himself. “Which brings me to Thea Waters.

“She had fought for the rebellion. After the war, she gave birth to a child. Given the prophecy, she took him and went off to live out of the way. Unfortunately, the wyverns found them and attacked. Her child was missing for years after.

“Missing,” Ned said, “until about a year ago. I’ll try to spare you some of the particulars. Suffice to say that one of Jon Arryn’s men was looking into the cold case and found a lead on the child. It was a long shot, but Arryn’s man – Royce – followed it up and discovered it actually led somewhere.

“Royce had gone through our files for the case and decided to start over. He expanded his search into the muggle world and beyond the county of Cornwall, where the child had lived, and looked through the UK’s national database. He found a match for the same time frame as our case. He compared our files with those of the muggle hospital’s. Thought the photographs of the child looked a lot like a man who had fought for the rebellion, which could make him a candidate for the prophecy.

“The social worker for the boy’s case had died a few years ago in a car crash, so Royce couldn’t find the boy that way, and he only had so much access to the muggle database. In looking through the muggle files, he discovered that one of the hospital’s volunteers had sat with the boy until social workers with your Department for Education could arrive. A septon.”

“Let me guess,” Buckland broke in, tiredly rubbing the inner corners of his eyes. “Septon Hightower?”

“Yes.”

“And the child was Thea Waters’ child?” Ned nodded his head. The PM let out a whoosh of air.

“Septon Hightower had no idea who the child was, of course. Had he known, it is almost certain he would have reported it to us at the Ministry of Magic. But he was like many squibs – Westerosi people born without magical abilities – he chose to live solely in the muggle world. Given that he’d been immersed in your world for about sixty years, it’s no wonder he didn’t keep up with Westerosi news. But, I digress.

“Royce followed up with Septon Hightower last year and asked questions regarding what he could remember from that night. As it turns out, he’d been friends with the social worker who had arrived that night. They’d kept in touch and Septon Hightower knew enough to point Royce in the right direction.”

“Ah,” the minister said. He refocused on Ned.

“You never answered my question. Why would someone bother to kill an old septon? It sounds like all he did was sit with a child for a few minutes one night, years ago.”

“That remains unclear,” Ned admitted. “It’s possible it’s someone in the loyalist faction, some wyvern, who wants to tie up loose ends.” Ned tilted his head. “It’s _technically_ possible that a member of the magical community did it out of disdain for his decision to live solely in the muggle world, though I think that’s highly unlikely. Squibs are generally given additional leeway in magical society for such a choice, given their inability to perform magic.” Terrence frowned.

“Choosing to live in the muggle world is considered such a bad thing? Why?”

“Because to live among muggles is to flirt with the possibility one might choose to wed a muggle. Mixing is far more common than most assume or publicly admit, but it still carries a stigma.

“But back to the matter at hand, our Muggle Liaison office has recently released a report. Part of their commission is to track malpractice by magical persons against muggles, and they’ve found an uptick in unexplained occurrences. Septon Hightower’s strange death is one of the events which they flagged.”

“Wait, there’s a government agency that just trawls through all our muggle news looking for evidence of magic?” Ned nodded again, worried they would get sidetracked again. “Why?”

“Because strange occurrences, if caused by magic, can quickly grow into a larger problem. Sometimes it’s a dragon that’s gone rogue and escaped their reservation. Or perhaps it’s some young witch or wizard that has yet to learn to control their abilities. Mainly, it’s a matter of maintaining Westeros’s secrecy.”

“The Statute of Secrecy is one of our strictest laws. Therefore, if the Liaison office’s annual report on unexplained occurrences shows an uptick, it’s cause for concern. We can put some things back together, erase a few people’s memories, without too much trouble. But once a secret is known by enough people, there’s no spell that can undo that kind of damage.”

“So what happens if too many muggles find out?”

“The Muggle Liaison office is a division within the Department for Magical Catastrophes and Accidents. It would depend on what, exactly occurred. A dragon escape is usually manageable. We’ll herd it back and tell you to pull strings to make sure it’s declared to be a gas explosion or else nitroglycerin that was set off during transport or something. Modify a few memories as necessary.”

“Just how common is it for PMs to need to help your lot cover up your messes?”

A warning bell went off at the back of Ned’s mind. Buckland’s question was pointed, and it definitely felt like a trap; like he was asking to see whether Ned’s answer would confirm some prior knowledge or if Ned was a liar.

“It’s usually every couple years or so, that some muggleborn child floods the plumbing of a building or shrinks a dog or something. As for major events,” the PM leaned forward and Ned stifled down the urge to physically cringe.

“Those are far less common to be sure. But during the war, the Targaryens had started losing. The rebellion had formed a stronger coalition. Many of the noble families who were declared loyalists were either half-hearted in their support or were too insignificant to swing the war in their favor themselves.

“Some loyalists decided to treat with giants and convince them to help start a new theater of war beyond Westeros, in the muggle world. Those planes, Air France flight 1887 and Logan Air flight 399. The ones that crashed near Edinburgh about a decade ago-?”

“Seven Hells.” Terrence muttered. He drained his tea. “That was _you?_ ”

“Well, not _us_ , as in the rebellion, no.” Ned quibbled uncomfortably. “But yes, it was magical folk trying to expand to a new arena in the hopes it would help turn the tide. Spread us too thinly. It might have worked, too.”

“No wonder all these mad conspiracy theories keep cropping up with those damned flights.” Terrence shook his head, disbelieving. “I should have known – military testing _and_ sudden catastrophic weather, _twice_ , combined with onboard system failures of _both_ flights? Six miles apart, with different airlines and different plane models? _Fucking_ hells.”

“Yes, well,” Ned shifted. “The Muggle Liaison office was a bit strained at the time. It was severely understaffed, and some young intern came up with a bunch of excuses … the Ministry was in chaos, one thing led to another, the painting misinterpreted their instructions and a less-than desirable cover story was picked.”

“It was a cock-up, is what that was.” The PM shook his head. “No, it was straight up carelessness! Utter disregard! How could your lot allow not one, but _two_ separate attacks on my world?”

Despite his exclamations, the Prime Minister was fairly calm, but it was clear the tone had shifted drastically. He was beyond pointed now, he was furious. Not for the first time, Ned wished he were a better diplomat.

A better diplomat would have framed things better. Or might have simply refrained from revealing such details. As soon as the thought surfaced, Ned dispelled it. Lying by omission would only serve to build a relationship on a foundation riddled with lies. He refused to be the reason good relations were built, only to crumble later based on his deceptions.

 _Promise me, Ned_.

Lyanna had never specified a time frame, and she had made her last request while the war still raged. Cat had concurred with Lyanna’s last request. But as time went on, Ned had begun to doubt just how long the secret would benefit them. The secret would keep everyone safer, Cat still argued.

But had it?

It had not measurably changed anything as far as Ned could tell. The danger was still there. Cat had still grown resentful and cruel to Jon. The rest of the kids were still targets, with or without Jon in Winterfell. His admittedly feeble attempts to bring it up with Catelyn over the years had fallen miserably short.

“Well?” Ned was pulled from his reverie to face the prime minister, still angry.

“We didn’t _allow_ it,” Ned stated. “We were the rebellion. The loyalists were technically in control of the ministry, but the war had dragged on. Many in the ministry had either disappeared, died, or left their posts.

“The first plane, we didn’t even hear about until several hours later. And then they launched a new attack. We learned the loyalists had decided to restructure the war by isolating different regions of the UK. Then they’d use the muggle world to orient their attacks back into Westeros. We acted as quickly as we could.”

“They were planning on using my world as a staging ground?” Terrence echoed back. Ned wasn’t sure whether this boded well.

“Yes.”

Ned couldn’t read the prime minister’s face as he refilled his teacup. For a bit, the two of them sipped at the tea. Ned braced himself and tried to figure out the minister’s expression.

“Why now? Tonight?” Terrence finally asked, setting his teacup into it’s saucer. “Why not tell me this some other time?” Ned fought the urge to sigh.

“Certain timelines have been moved up. I’m taking precautions to keep things discrete. Ideally, the wyverns will be none the wiser. Having said that, there’s always a possibility for things to go awry. I came today to keep you informed, should anything happen. Particularly so you can be prepared for if the painting has any news to tell you.”

“What sort of _thing_ might happen?” The PM was a bit testy now and Ned wished he could do more than shake his head.

“There’s no way to know. I will tell you that the Minister of Magic and myself will be visiting Flea Bottom tomorrow morning. We’re adept at disguising ourselves as muggles, so you don’t need to worry as far as that.”

To his surprise, the Prime Minister seemed to have forgotten his ire. He was sitting back, now. He fixed Ned with a stare while his fingers spun his pen in those tireless flips and circles he was so fond of performing.

“I have another question. You say things have moved up. I’m not blind. You seem like the meticulously slow type to me, which means things have moved up against your wishes and you weren’t prepared for it. So many people have been murdered over these prophecy children by now. The mother of that boy. Royce. Arryn. The Septon.” He continued to gaze at Ned, presumably hoping to elicit a reaction.

“Yes?”

“Aren’t you worried you’re going to join them?” It was a fair question.

“I’ve been careful to move slowly, it’s true.” Ned acknowledged.

“I’ve been careful to allow the wyverns to believe that I’m none the wiser when it comes to their efforts regarding the prophecy. I’m aware I have a certain reputation for being …” What was it people kept saying about him? Benjen had mentioned overhearing the likes of Jaime Lannister saying Ned still believed himself to be Head Boy. And something about having a stick up his-

“Of being a stuffy rule-follower.” Ned broke himself out of his musings. Buckland snorted, so Ned plowed on.

“As far as they should know, the prophecy continues to be on a – how do you say it – a back burner, while I work to catch my department up with it’s backlogged cases. I’ve also made sure to show my preoccupation with my family. It’s common knowledge that I didn’t want this job, so everyone should believe that well enough-.”

Ned stopped short for a moment, realizing how unprofessional it was to tell the muggle PM that the ambassador to the muggle world felt he had better things to do. To his relief, the muggle man gave a true, genuine smile and made a hand gesture to show no offense was taken.

“One of the obvious goals of the wyverns,” Ned started again. “Is to put the Targaryen dynasty back on the Iron Throne and restore the monarchy. Therefore, an obvious course of action is to find and eliminate the Promised One. But they are far fewer in number than before. They’re disorganized and underground. There’s no way for them to effectively search for the candidates.

“You’ve heard the prophecy; it’s vague. My own children are considered to be candidates. It’s unlikely any of them are truly the One since they don’t fit all the criteria, but they are nonetheless considered to be obvious candidates. The children of several other prominent families whose fathers fought in the war are also included. But the _most_ likely candidates are still unknown to them. There are likely even more of them out there of which I am ignorant.” He drew breath.

“All of this is to say: the wyverns won’t want to make a move too early and reveal themselves. It’s in their best interest to keep me around and hope I find the prophecy candidates for them. Besides,” Ned stood now, and stretched his legs.

“I’ve kept tabs on a number of wyverns within the Ministry. I’m putting plans into place tomorrow afternoon to finally arrest them and relieve them from their posts. From there, we have ways of flushing the rest out of hiding.” He gave the PM an assuring look.

“They may be moving faster, but so am I.”

* * *

It was late when Ned finally got home. The North was too far to apparate from King’s Landing in one go. He had technically managed it once, during the war, but he had damn near splinched himself doing it. He typically needed to make a stop in the Riverlands, then the Neck and finally home.

The sun had long since set and Ned returned to Winterfell greeted with tiny flecks of snow floating down. It was spring – well, summer – and the snows would stop for the year soon. Unless they had another summer snow, which was entirely possible.

The southern gate remained impassive as he approached, but the direwolf statues that sat and guarded either side of the gate turned their heads to look at him when he drew near. One of them, with moss growing on it’s shoulder, stood and came forward, blocking his way.

“Eddard Stark,” Ned spoke aloud, proffering his hand. The stone direwolf sniffed at his hand and instantly turned to escort him in while the other remained at its post. With steps that revealed a light grinding as it moved, the mossy direwolf pushed through the outer wall, melting through the stone. More sounds of stones grinding and rearranging themselves could be heard and soon the stones of the wall folded back to reveal the inner wall.

Ned strode forward as the mossy statue returned to its post. Ahead of him, the giant ironwood doors unlatched themselves and swung open, revealing Winterfell’s southern courtyard.

The castle grounds were empty, as was usual. Gone were the medieval days where the Starks of old had hundreds of staff and footmen to care for the keep and help guard the castle. As with every other keep in Westeros, the vast majority of them had been muggles. And as with every other keep, the separation of Westeros from the muggle world saw that number dwindle to just the magical folk and the odd muggle family that had decided to remain in service.

Like many magical keeps, Winterfell’s magic and construction largely maintained itself, and even the few remaining positions had largely been ceremonial in nature. Eventually, even the last muggle family that had remained in service to the Starks had moved to Wintertown. Their daughter had grown up and eventually married Rodrick Cassel, so they hadn’t exactly strayed far. It seemed that only Hodor was left now, though his role was about as informal as could be.

Ned made it to the Great Keep and stepped inside. He checked his watch and groaned. It was after nine, and he decided to see whether any dinner had been set aside for him.

“Ah, so you do remember where you live,” Catelyn spoke up from behind him. Ned pulled his head from the freezer.

It wasn’t a freezer that any muggle would find familiar. It was simply a cabinet, charmed to halt the decomposition of any food inside it. Similarly, the ice box didn’t have any ice in it; it merely held freezing temperatures to hold ice cream and the like.

“Sorry I’m so late,” Ned grimaced. “I had a bugger of a day. Spent the entire day running around – had a meeting with the minister. Just came from the muggle PM’s office…” he trailed when he saw Cat’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” She echoed back at him, her voice suddenly strained. “Besides so many things, it seems?” For a moment, she looked as vulnerable as he had ever seen her.

“What’s wrong is that, on top of everything – our jobs, Benjen missing, Bran is so ill, the girls are fighting all the time – you _never seem to be here_ , Ned. Not when I need you.”

Ned crossed to her and hugged her, setting his plate on the counter. She hugged him back and after a moment she pulled away.

“I’m tired,” she continued. “But the girls had another row today. They need to be dealt with and anything I say to them will go in one ear and out the other – I’ll wake you early tomorrow morning.” Handing him his plate, she kissed him and retreated to head up the stairs.

As Ned was setting his dishes to soak with the rest of them, he felt a pair of eyes on him.

“I thought I heard you,” Ned teased. He knew saying he’d heard her would irk her. She had always been light-footed but ever since Syrio had started training her she had become single minded about trying to creep around everywhere she went.

“Can you play with me?” Arya asked without preamble. Ned was about to dismiss her out of hand – it was late, he was tired, she needed to go to bed, they both had an early start tomorrow – but the refusal died when he locked eyes with her. He sighed.

“Lead the way,” Ned gave a mock bow and Arya ran to the sitting room, eager to get everything set up. When Ned arrived, she was sitting at the board, having already set it up before even asking him to play. He shook his head at himself. He should have known.

“Aren’t you sick of playing by now?” Ned asked.

Perhaps three or four years ago, Arya had demanded that Ned teach her to play. Apparently, she had become fascinated with the tales of Visenya and Nymeria, great warrior queens with fearsome reputations for tactics and warfare. Ned had acquiesced but could not devote the time to play with her as often as she liked and her siblings had quickly tired of her constant demands for matches, tiring of losing to her so frequently. Even Arya’s trips to Wintertown’s Academy failed to find as good a partner as Bran or Ned.

Only Bran had had the patience to play her and the skill to soundly beat her. But with him at St Mungo’s she had lost her primary partner. He had hoped Luwin’s agreement to continue chess with Arya would tire out her interest but it had had the opposite effect.

“No,” Arya said. “I’m finally getting good at not relying on the queen.” The queen.

Ned thought back to a day, over a year ago, when he had agreed to play nonstop chess with her for the whole day. It was largely out of guilt, since Arya hadn’t had anyone other than Luwin to play with in about a month, and he had to perform his regular duties of teaching them all their subjects. Still, Ned had not regretted that day because he had learned a lot. Arya’s strategies, her mindset, and her dependence upon the queen.

“ _Ah,”_ Ned had said upon their fourth game all those months ago. Arya had used her queen to capture his rook and was now putting pressure on his knight and upon the pawn that blocked his king. _“I didn’t see that…”_

“ _You like the queen, don’t you?”_ Arya nodded, still staring at the board, planning her next moves. Arya tended to be quiet while she played.

“ _She can move in any direction,”_ Ned continued. _“Target anything. It wasn’t always the case, though. She used to be one of the weakest pieces. They played chess in the royal Targaryen court in the 15_ _th_ _Century. Queen Vaella was offended. She asked her advisors if they thought her that feeble._

“ _Their response was to make her the most powerful piece in the game.”_ Arya’s queen took his knight. More plays ensued, and Ned spoke up again.

“ _You have to be careful though because in chess, the more powerful a piece is, the more useful they are, not just for winning,”_ Ned sent his bishop, or septon, as some of the more religiously inclined called it, along the board. _“_ _But to be used for sacrifice, as a trick.”_ Arya kept quiet, her eyes still sweeping this way and that across the board as they each made their plays.

“ _How many moves out did you consider that time?”_

“ _About ten,”_ Arya said. She was getting faster, more confident, at pairing down the number of options to consider. She had gone through a faze where she had become painfully meticulous in trying to mentally project out where each move might lead, until Jon had told her to just play and see where different options would take her.

“ _You’re getting faster,”_ Ned commented. _“It’s good to see you still take your time to consider everything … Or almost everything. I’m afraid you missed it.”_ He took pleasure in watching Arya drill daggers into the board, searching for whatever it was she had missed. But it was too late. Ned had used his own queen as a sacrifice to capture hers and now he would win. Checkmate was inevitable within two to three moves.

Ned shook himself back into the present.

Professor Luwin had recently mentioned she had become quite adept of late and was difficult to beat. Just as with math and arithmancy, she had taken to chess with a level of calculated precision that was impressive for her age.

Chess was one of the few things Ned had been truly good at as a child. Brandon and Lyanna were hard pressed to beat him, once Ned had finally gotten the hang of it. But Brandon rarely had the interest in playing and even Lyanna had run out of patience with the game. It was never as fun playing with Benjen. His little brother never enjoyed it much either and really only played it to make Ned happy.

When he’d gone to Hogwarts, he had been disappointed when he realized Robert was unlikely to ever sit still long enough to play past two moves, and that was if Robert could bother to remember how the knight even moved.

Ned had resorted to joining the chess club instead whenever he felt the need for a match. He had always enjoyed the process of watching, planning, waiting, all while moving his own pieces into position. It was both exciting and peaceful, in a way. He had liked to watch as he lured his opponents and sprung his traps; his opponents helpless to mitigate his attacks.

The joys of strategizing his foe’s downfall had soured, however, as had most things from his childhood.

The rebellion had taught him that he wasn’t half-bad at strategy. Robert had never been an idiot with war. If anything, Robert certainly had a frightening knack for it; an instinct. And Professor Arryn had the gifts of age and wisdom. Yet Ned surprised them both, and himself, with some of his proposals during that war.

So when his seven-year-old daughter had declared that she wanted him to teach her chess, that she wanted to become a great warrior like Visenya or Nymeria, Ned had not initially known what to do.

“Heads or tails?” Arya asked, breaking him from his thoughts and into the present.

“Heads.” Arya flipped the sickle, and it landed on heads. He would be playing white.

They settled into a brisk game. Arya sensed he was tired and did not want a drawn out game, so they silently moved their pieces without stopping to consider for too long between moves. As they played, Ned could not help but watch her.

There was a certain amount of blood lust in her. Not that she was cruel; if anything, she was a bit of a bossy prude when it came to fairness. But if she thought someone was ever in the wrong, she seemed to have trouble regulating how far to take her response. She was young still, hopefully she would smooth out and gain a more level head. These thoughts simmered in the back of his mind while they played, and before he knew it the game was up.

“Checkmate,” Arya stated.

She had played rather elegantly. Gone were the brash, thoughtless attacks she had relied on a few short years ago. Ned had taught her to play. Bran and Professor Luwin had drilled her on tactics and refined her strategies. She had learned to relax and improvise with Robb and Jon. She had smugly rubbed her wins in Sansa’s face, which had probably slowed her progress. Through it all, Ned had helped to curb her more impulsive tendencies and teach her to project out without becoming too attached to any particular plan.

“Yes, yes,” Ned replied. “You needn’t rub it in. A few short years and you’re quite adept. If you entered into proper competitions, you’d likely achieve a ranking of master… Mind you, you’ll encounter far more capable opponents than me or even Bran and Professor Luwin, if you go looking.”

“Once again?” Arya asked hopefully. Their game truly hadn’t taken long.

“No,” Ned sighed. “I don’t think so. You asked me to teach you chess, and I’ve done that. It’s a useful mental exercise. Through the years, many thinkers have been fascinated by it.” He briefly mulled over whether to break the news to her. He nodded to himself.

“But I don’t enjoy playing. Do you know why?” Arya’s eyes had gone wide. He suspected she sensed he had no enthusiasm for chess, but not why.

“No.”

“Because it was a game that was born during a brutal age when life counted for little and everyone believed that some people were worth more than others. Kings and pawns … I don’t think that anyone is worth more than anyone else.” He looked at her. They were all so young, and the world ahead of them was looking so dark.

“I don’t envy you the decisions you’re going to have to make in life. And one day I’ll be gone, and I won’t be around for you to talk to. But if you remember nothing else, please remember this:

“Chess is just a game. Real people aren’t pieces. You can’t assign more value to some of them than to others. Not to me, not to anyone. People are not a thing that you can sacrifice.” Arya was watching him now, absorbing his words.

“The lesson is that anyone who looks on the world as if it was a game of chess deserves to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned’s speeches on chess are taken, almost verbatim, from Person of Interest, one of my all time favorite television series. Season 04, Episode 11, ‘If-Then-Else’ is an excellent episode for a lot of reasons. Finch’s speeches to the Machine as he teaches it chess and ethics are gold.  
> When Finch tells the Machine about the history of the queen in chess, he explains it was played in the royal court of Spain in the 15th Century, and it was Queen Isabella who was offended. I kept the same time frame and changed Isabella to Vaella. The scenes from that episode are on youtube, in case any of you are interested.  
> As a side note, Person of Interest will be added to HBO at the end of January, if I’m not mistaken. Check it out if you’re a subscriber – if I manage to write a character arc even half as good as Fusco or Root, I’ll be a happy camper. The writers/creators are the same people who went on to write/create HBO’s Westworld. Person of Interest’s soundtrack composer, Ramin Djawadi, also went on to compose for Game of Thrones and Westworld. I’m a fan, and his music has helped direct some of my decisions for this story.


	12. In the Light of Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry pays a visit and meets a new face.

Spring term took on an odd quality for Gendry, as far as time. It managed to crawl along at a snail’s pace when all Gendry wanted was to see Mr. Stark’s miserable face again.

Classes were fine. Mostly.

Professor Lannister would give him glowing praise when he managed a perfect outcome on one of his potions. But then Gendry’s cauldron would issue such horrible fumes as to force the entire class to evacuate the dungeons. That had been a particularly mortifying day. The entire first year class was dismissed early and given the rest of class off.

The second years had been scheduled for their potions class right after and they too had been given the class off while Professor Lannister enlisted the help of the Hogwarts caretaker, Daris Crool, to aerate and clean the dungeons. Several first and second years had thanked Gendry for such a brilliant stroke of genius and asked him how he had done it. Mr. Crool, who had never seemed to care for the students to begin with, had taken to shooting distrustful looks Gendry’s way ever since.

Herbology was also still hit and miss. He was excellent with some plants that required the utmost care. Professor Pommingham would then assign the class to care for, as she described it, an unkillable plant as a form of busywork. Gendry would, he thought, do as everyone else did. But somehow it would wind up withered and sometimes dead when they arrived to check on them in the days following. Professor Pommingham would scratch her head at that.

Charms were a bit better. He had yet to blow something up or kill anything, so that was a plus. That bar was admittedly low, though.

It was transfigurations that irked Gendry. He was doing rather well in transfigurations, consistently so, and he wished he weren’t.

Professor Tyrell insisted on praising him whenever he did something right. Every time, Gendry had to fight the urge to snap back with something disrespectful. As it was, he managed to succeed in tamping down on mouthing off to him by simply averting his eyes. He realized only later that it probably looked like he was glowering at everything, but there wasn’t much he thought he could do about that.

Hot Pie and Lommy, ever watchful of his moods since his outburst on Halloween, had started to widen the berth around him in transfigurations. Whether they thought he was simply an angry, driven student or else he hated the professor, they seemed to not want to find out.

For all of its shortcomings with pacing, Gendry blinked and realized April had somehow arrived without his noticing. His stomach twisted when he realized the school year was nearing an end and it looked more and more likely he’d be sent home before Ned Stark’s return.

April arrived. It turned out his fears were to be assuaged because one Friday near the end of term, Professor Tyrell pulled him aside at the end of class.

“Mr. Stark will be returning this weekend,” Professor Tyrell told him. “He intends on fulfilling his promise to you.” Leaving the transfigurations classroom, Gendry numbly went around his usual routine.

It was like the night of the sorting ceremony all over again. Potions was his last class for the day and Gendry was in a daze. He vaguely sensed Professor Lannister’s cringing looks as he watched Gendry for any signs of ruining his potion.

Thankfully, his cauldron remained calm and the concoction turned the right shade of yellowed green as it simmered. Professor Lannister looked relieved and dismissed everyone early, possibly to preempt any last minute crisis.

He absently followed the other Gryffindors to dinner. What would she be like? He put some food in his mouth. Would she be at all like he remembered? He drank something. Maybe she wouldn’t even be blonde. He cut up his potatoes. Would she be happy to see him? Maybe she would only associate negative things with him. He followed the others to Gryffindor Tower. She was his mother; as a mother she’d be relieved to see him, wouldn’t she?

Just like the sorting ceremony, Gendry had fluctuating levels of nerves. He was calm during potions and dinner. He was wired when he stood up to leave. He had inadvertently left everyone else behind because his brisk, agitated walk had taken him far ahead.

“… Hello? Are you there?” An annoyed voice broke into his thoughts. He shook his head. The pink lady cleared her throat when she got his attention for emphasis. “Password?”

“Er,” Gendry said. Did he really want to be cooped up with the likes of Lommy or Hot Pie all evening? “Never mind.” She huffed, but Gendry had already turned away.

He wandered the halls, alternately dragging his feet along some halls and speeding down others. He slowed to a stop and looked up into the breastplate of the suit of armor. Why not? He pushed on the gauntlet and stepped through the swiveled wall.

As expected, the Mirror of Erised was no longer there. It had likely been gone for months, now. Gendry wandered along one wall, peeking into one crate after another. From the corner of his eye, he saw a silvery glow just before he heard the voice.

“What are you doing here?” Gendry whirled around and found himself looking at Jenny of Oldstones.

“Lady Oldstones,” Gendry said stupidly. “Er, I’m … avoiding people.” He finished lamely. He really had no good reason to be here. House ghosts had the ability to give and remove points, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he was docked in house points for being here. It was probably against the rules. Gendry chanced a glance up and found the specter was giving him an appraising look. She said nothing.

“Er,” Gendry tried to fill the silence. Did she want a better explanation from him? “What about you?” He inwardly winced at the forwardness of the question. To his surprise, she tilted her head and considered his question.

“Much the same.” To Gendry’s knowledge, few students had ever heard her speak beyond a few words. Those who had typically only heard her voice when she was answering some question or other, usually to some first year. She further surprised him by continuing:

“Ser Artys mentioned you made frequent trips to this room last term. But you haven’t been back since. Until now, it seems. Why?”

Gendry was floored. The school ghosts apparently shared gossip about the students between themselves. That, and they probably shared some with the headmaster, given Tywin Lannister’s appearance last term. And was he having an actual conversation with Lady Oldstones?

“The headmaster told me not to come back,” Gendry gestured to the space where the mirror had stood. She nodded in understanding. “I came back because I knew it would be gone by now and,” Gendry thought about it. “I dunno. I didn’t want to be around other people.”

“Why?”

“Well,” For the sake of the Seven, how many times would she ask why? Why did she care? “I just, I dunno. Why do you ask? And who are _you_ trying to avoid?” He hated how whiny and defensive he sounded but he couldn’t come up with anything better.

“I try to avoid people’s stares,” she answered simply. “Students think I don’t hear them whispering about me. Or else they think I don’t mind it. But I do.” Gendry’s mind flashed across Orina Spyre’s comments about him. He found he was bobbing his head to her. He took a breath.

“I guess,” Gendry tried again. “I came here tonight because when I’m around other people, I feel alone. And I don’t want to be with other people anyway. So I’d rather just be alone for real.” He had no idea whether he had made sense to himself, let alone to her, but he watched as Lady Oldstones nodded anyway.

Without responding, she swirled and began to drift away.

“Wait!” Gendry called. She turned back to him. “Erm,” he was suddenly unsure. “You aren’t going to go ‘round telling anyone about this, are you?” She tilted her head.

“Why?” She asked. Gendry couldn’t tell whether she was teasing him or not.

“Never mind,” he mumbled. He made his way back to the door but gasped and leapt back when he felt a frigid sensation trickling through his arm. Lady Oldstones came to a stop before him.

“I won’t tell anyone,” she said solemnly.

The following morning came. Gendry was up early. Because it was a weekend, he was pretty much alone in the great hall for breakfast, save for a handful of other early risers. He hurried back to his dorm and inwardly grumbled that Hot Pie and Lommy were still sleeping. In their defense, it was a Saturday, but he didn’t want them around just then. So he set about trying to wake them up.

Gendry tried to stumble around as clumsily and as loudly as he could to wake Hot Pie and Lommy up without explicitly telling them to leave. After ‘accidentally’ kicking his trunk for the third time and knocking things down from his desk a second time, Lommy finally jerked awake and reflexively threw his pillow at Gendry. Gendry flung it back and was satisfied when he saw Lommy had been hit square in the face. It was as solid a hit as a pillow could do, and Lommy finally sat up, grumbling.

Once the others had dressed and stumbled off to find breakfast, Gendry was able to commandeer the full length mirror in the room. He was wearing the blue jumper that Elinor always said suited him, but he couldn’t help grimacing at his hair. It was thick and unruly by nature, but it somehow seemed worse and worse the longer he looked at it.

Was it always this bad? Elinor’s wet comb would sometimes flatten it, but it never stayed for very long. Should he try the wet comb and do his due diligence? But when it dried, it might make everything worse. What if it stuck right back up and dried like that – it would end up looking even worse. He pointedly ignored Fabia’s amused gaze and dipped his comb into a glass of water, ready to run it through his hair.

He miserably let his comb drop back into the glass of water on his desk, leaving his hair dry and uncombed. He settled for trying to pat it down with his hands. Hopefully his hair would stay somewhat down and not look too unruly.

Would Mr. Stark notice his poor efforts? _He_ was always dressed so professionally, and he seemed to embody a quiet dignity without even trying. His beard was always well groomed and neatly trimmed, and his robes were tailored to fit…

Gendry looked down and saw his trousers were too short. He briefly considered changing into his school uniform trousers, but immediately nixed the idea. Those trousers were a bit short, too. Besides, Mr. Stark had explicitly explained how Gendry needed to stay below the radar. Thus, Gendry wore his own clothes.

He was wearing his longest pair of trousers and still his ankles were showing. Elinor had packed some longer trousers for him and told him to just roll the cuffs until he grew into them, but it seemed she had not anticipated his growth spurt mere months later. He supposed he should just be grateful his toes weren’t bursting through his shoes.

He sat at the edge of his bed and huffed in defeat. With a flutter, Fabia landed on the bed beside him and clicked her beak, giving him a playful dig into his hair. She seemed to find humor in his sudden vanity.

Checking the time, he realized he needed to head down. With a final dissatisfied look in the mirror, Gendry tossed a treat to Fabia and made his way to Professor Tyrell’s office.

When he neared the office, the door was ajar and he made to push it in, assuming they wanted him to simply walk in. As he did, he began to catch the tail end of Professor Tyrell saying something.

“… Robert never had that kind of self control.”

“Hopeful,” Eddard Stark replied in a dry tone. Neither had noticed him, so Gendry knocked on the open door and they turned to him. Without missing a beat, Mr. Stark shot a final look to Tyrell and stood.

“Ready?” Gendry nodded.

Mr. Stark led them down and out of the castle and beyond the school’s gates. He pulled his sleeve back and held his hand out to Gendry.

“Hold on tight.” Gendry complied and felt the jolting sensation of pressure from every angle and an enormous tug.

He blinked at the change of light when his feet were set onto pavement. They were stood in an alleyway. Gendry fought the urge to sway and he let go of Mr. Stark’s hand, stifling down a wave of nausea. Mr. Stark led them around the corner, explaining the visitor’s entrance and how to get in.

Gendry didn’t know whether he would ever get used to the idea that London and countless other places could hold hidden doorways into the magical world.

How could people truly not notice other people stepping into and out of window shops as though they were walking through something as permeable as a beaded curtain? Did station workers truly not see children with owls, toads and trunks running into and out of brick walls each year?

Once inside, Mr. Stark continued to discreetly show Gendry how to navigate the hospital, instructing him to simply walk past the visitor’s sign in. The witch sitting at the visitor’s station was absorbed in some periodical. Even when she looked up at them, it was with eyes that had glazed over from boredom. Multiple other witches and wizards were passing back and forth before her desk, and Gendry doubted she could effectively track who was coming and going, let alone keep track of who had stopped to sign in.

They proceeded to the fourth floor, named after Alysanne Targaryen. Despite Mr. Stark’s care taken to avoid signing in with the front desk downstairs, he steered them towards a witch dressed in healer’s robes. She had graying hair that was pulled into a ponytail and she wore an expression of expectation when she saw Mr. Stark approach.

“Clarysa Whitehill,” she offered her hand to Gendry in introduction. “I’ve been caring for Ms. Waters for the past three years now.” She had pulled them aside to a more private corner and had quietly explained some of the particulars of Thea Waters’ condition and care, but Gendry wasn’t sure he heard her.

Somewhere by the second or third floor, Gendry’s stomach had begun to tie itself in knots. Were his lungs always this brittle? Why was Mr. Stark walking so slowly? Why was he so conscious of his hands? Why was Mr. Stark walking so fast?

By the time they had reached the Alysanne Targaryen Ward, he felt leaden and slow. He had begged Mr. Stark to take him to this very hospital months ago. But wasn’t it too soon? Maybe Mr. Stark had more “preparations” to make before they could meet.

Healer Whitehill’s explanation, as succinct as it was, washed over him and he felt the words float by him. Some part of him understood, however, because he was nodding at the right times and thanking her when she had finished.

“If you ever have a question or need anything while you’re here,” Mr. Stark was telling him, now propelling them along. “Go to her, and only her. Understand?” Gendry nodded. He might as well be a bobble head. Mr. Stark brought them to a stop in front of a door.

And there it was. Her name on a door plaque. The room tucked away at the end of the corridor.

Mr. Stark had stepped aside to let Gendry proceed into the room, angling himself to sit on the bench outside the door. Gendry hesitated.

“Sir,” Gendry decided to chance it. “Can I ask you something?” He watched Mr. Stark briefly pause, and Gendry felt vindicated in asking. At least the man was willing to hear him out. He nodded back.

“Of course.”

“Why are you doing this?” The wizard didn’t seem to react at first, so Gendry elaborated. “I heard Professor Tyrell tell you not to, that day we met. And that man, Stannis Baratheon, doesn’t seem to want this either. So, why?” Out of all of the mysterious wizards who wanted to know about Gendry, only this man seemed to have any inclination to answer anything back.

A series of rapid expressions flickered across Mr. Stark’s face, but Gendry couldn’t read them. Maybe it was the beard.

“The Stark family has a saying,” Mr. Stark finally answered. “Words that we repeat to ourselves. ‘Winter is Coming.’ They remind us that hard times are always ahead. They remind us that we are stronger together when the winds of winter try to pull us apart.” He sent a look over Gendry’s shoulder to the room behind him.

“Your mother can no longer live on her own. She can’t care for herself anymore, live independently. Some would say that makes her a burden. But when it comes to the people you love and who love you, I don’t believe such a thing exists.”

They were poetic words, Gendry supposed, but he wasn’t sure what that had to do with Gendry’s question. It seemed to sidestep an actual answer. He still had no idea what equation Mr. Stark used to decide it was worth his time to solve puzzles and shepherd some nobody like Gendry to his mother. Surely someone as important as Mr. Stark could have sent some trusted friend or subordinate like Rodrik Cassel to handle such matters? He would need to mull over the non sequitur at a later time.

“Ready?” Mr. Stark was asking again. Gendry nodded. “Take your time.”

Stepping through and closing the door, Gendry turned back to face the room.

The room was larger than he thought it would be. Aside from noticing the warm daylight streaming through the south-facing windows, however, Gendry’s observations of the room evaporated.

Sitting at a little table next to the bed was a woman.

Later, Gendry would probably cringe at the uneven way he had walked across the room to her. As it was, he was only vaguely aware of the out-of-body experience setting in.

He watched himself approach her. He watched his hands pull clumsily at the chair across the little table from her. He watched as he nearly tripped over his own foot trying to pivot and sit down. Watched his hands wring themselves in his lap until he finally dragged his eyes up.

She was a woman, he noticed. She existed. And apparently she was Thea Waters, judging by the name on the door he’d just passed through. Beyond that, though, Gendry was at a loss.

The real Thea Waters was frail and hunched. At one point, she might have been vivacious and full, but he could see the sag of her head and the cuffs of her sleeves seemed a bit too loose. He couldn’t see her eyes because she seemed intent on picking at a worsening splinter at the edge of the table with knobbly hands. Her hair color was somewhat close to what he’d thought, but nowhere near what his overblown imagination had concocted.

Contrary to his memories or his imaginings, she did not have rich golden waves. Thea Waters had straight hair that seemed to have been a dark sandy color. Now though, gray and white had started to interrupt the sanded yellows of her hair.

Beyond his basic observations, Gendry didn’t know what to do. What was supposed to happen, now?

Somehow, he had mentally cataloged stories and movies where some long lost child goes on an adventure and reunites with their parents. Muggle movies were full of the things. Gendry didn’t feel like he’d gone on some great quest – Mr. Stark had taken his hand and brought him here, to London, where she’d been the whole time.

If Gendry were honest with himself, he had thought his entrance would have gone differently. More like one of the many movies he had absorbed throughout his upbringing.

When Mr. Stark asked him whether he was ready, Gendry had half-thought that he would have turned to face the room to a swell in orchestral music in some kind of cinematic moment. His mother would turn to face him. She would smile like she had in that mirror. They would hug. There might be a lens flare or the camera would pan away. The credits would roll and Gendry would feel complete.

Happily ever after.

Here he sat, staring at a stranger. Was she refusing to look at him? Perhaps she just hadn’t noticed him yet.

All at once, Gendry remembered Healer Whitehill’s explanation that had gone by him earlier. He replayed Mr. Stark’s comments that she couldn’t live independently anymore.

He fidgeted with his pocket and remembered the gift he had brought. Pulling the folded parchment from his pocket, he smoothed the creases on the table and tried to slide it across to her.

For a brief moment, his heart leapt when she raised her head slightly. She had light brown eyes. He hadn’t thought they were brown. The brown eyes stared at the parchment while Gendry held his breath. After a moment, her eyes slid back down and she went back to working at the weakening splinter at the table’s edge.

“It’s for you,” Gendry said uselessly. “You can keep it.” Belatedly, he wondered whether he should have tried to introduce himself. But his name was on the graded quiz right in front of her. Did she remember how to read?

Professor Lannister had praised him when Gendry had finally achieved a perfect score on one of their recent quizzes. Gendry had come close a couple of times, but Professor Lannister had never before given him such a grade. He had written a brief note of praise at the top of the page.

‘ _Well done, Waters._ ’

Professor Lannister’s handwriting was dignified and loopy, and Gendry had hoped she might be proud that he had managed to finally get full marks.

“I should probably go,” Gendry spoke up again. “I don’t want to hold Mr. Stark up.” He was unsure whether she knew the name. Perhaps she would remember someone she went to school with, even if they hadn’t been in the same social circles.

Thea Waters seemed to be picking at her robes now. Her shoulders stooped more, and her head dipped lower. Her curtain of faded, sandy hair blocked out her face.

“Well, I guess I should go then.” Gendry cleared his throat. He stood up. Was he supposed to try to hug her? Would that scare her? Would she notice? He was stuck deliberating the matter when she straightened back up and reached her hand out.

Thinking she meant to shake hands, he took it, but she didn’t shake back. Instead, he felt something small and crinkling. She stood and slowly shuffled away to her bed, where she began smoothing and straightening the already pristine bedspread. Gendry looked down and found what seemed to be a candy wrapper. He smoothed it out.

‘ _Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum_ ’

Back in the hallway, Gendry tucked the wrapper into his pocket and followed Mr. Stark back the way they came.

When Mr. Stark saw him off upon their return to school, Gendry made a conscious effort to walk at what he thought was a normal pace so it didn’t look like he was running away. His hands were coming away wet and it was painful to swallow. Just making it to the entrance hall left him feeling winded.

Everyone was starting on lunch in the great hall and Gendry was glad to pass it by, knowing Gryffindor Tower would be empty.

Fabia was waiting for him in his dormitory. When he walked in, she launched from one of his bed posts and came to settle on his shoulder. Despite himself, he gave a choked laugh when she made an attempt at the loose thread on his jumper. Months ago, Elinor had nearly landed a hit with her duster when she’d seen Fabia trying to pull at Gendry’s clothes.

Arriving at his desk, Gendry saw he’d left his comb and the glass of water out. Running a hand through his hair, he realized none of his panicky thoughts that morning had mattered. He could have shown up with his hair standing on end, covered in Barra’s drool and it wouldn’t have made a difference.

There, in his desk drawer which stood ajar, was one of his jars. He unscrewed the top and paged through his attempts at his mother’s – Thea’s – face.

He had spent years – _years_ – trying to copy down every detail about her from his dreams of her. He had stubbed his toes in the night time and again to try to capture as much as he possibly could.

When he had found the Mirror of Erised, he had thought he had come upon a jack pot. Finally, he had been able to take the time and really look at her, separate from the context of that dream or some random memory eked out of time and concentration.

Looking at these sketches and scribbles now, he realized how he had never even come close and he felt his face flush. At first, he couldn’t quite put his finger on why his heart was suddenly racing or why his knuckles were turning white.

Perhaps it was humiliation. Self-recrimination.

Thea Waters wasn’t ugly or objectionable by any means, but neither was she the perfect image of beauty and kindness. Her hair had never been golden. Her eyes had never been blue. She was much shorter than he had imagined, although she would have towered over his five-year-old self. If it weren’t for her empty expression and stooped posture, Gendry could see that she could have been pretty.

Under the cover of his nighttime imagination, Gendry had dreamed of a fantasy. A form of perfection that Gendry now realized had made drawing any likeness impossible. There was no such thing as a perfect face or perfect hair or a perfect mother.

Under the glare of broad daylight, Gendry had seen a person. A woman with flaws. Split hairs and knobbly hands and tired shoulders.

Gendry’s fingers started to hurt and he blinked. He had the jar in a death grip and he took a breath as he stuffed the roll of papers back into the jar and spun the lid back on. He couldn’t look at them anymore.

Standing over his open trunk, Gendry deliberated over whether he had the heart to pack it into his trunk early. It was worth years of his accumulated dreams.

He had never been an artist but the images in his hands still served to show him just how wrong he’d been. These scraps of paper showed a series of sickeningly idealized faces. The woman in them wasn’t just different; Gendry had constructed an angelic model in place of an actual person. How could his image of her have become so warped? It wasn’t like he had never known her; she was his mother for Seven’s sake, shouldn’t he have known better?

Yes. He should have. And instead of remembering her as she was, he had spent years dreaming up some fairy-tale version of a real life person.

Gendry felt himself meet some sort of internal threshold. He was so focused on the paper in the jar, and on the thoughts in his head that he didn’t notice the sounds of footsteps, nor did he hear Domeric laughing at something Hot Pie was saying.

As the dormitory door opened and the sound of their laughter burst in, Gendry was busy flinging the jar down with all his might into his trunk and kicking it as he turned towards the door. The jar splintered into shards, stopping the group in their tracks. The trunk was already sliding into his bed, bringing the lid down with a bang.

Lommy and Hot Pie stood in the doorway, their eyes growing as wide as saucers. Domeric and Edd were right behind them, possibly on their way past towards their own room.

The sound of something splatting on the floor and a ringing crunch brought everyone’s eyes downward. At their feet was what looked like a broken bowl of pudding.

“We brought you some pudding,” Domeric tried. He was clearly trying not to wince as he said it. For a moment, the room held still.

Then, everyone jumped into action.

“We’ll clean this up,” Domeric muttered, elbowing Edd to leave and get out of the way. Edd looked relieved and fled towards his own dormitory. Gendry ran to the corner cupboard and retrieved a dustpan. He set it down and Domeric drew and waved his wand, sweeping the pudding and broken bowl into the pan.

Lommy and Hot Pie yelled something about having forgotten something before remembering something and left. As soon as the mess was dumped into the waste bin, Gendry straightened up.

“Er, thanks. Sorry.” Gendry muttered. Domeric gave a hollow, awkward laugh.

“Yeah.”

“I should go then,” Gendry mumbled after another uncomfortable beat. He sidled by Domeric and made to head down the stairs.

“Gendry,” Domeric called, and Gendry stopped on the stair steps and turned back. The second year boy seemed to be struggling over whether to bring something up now or whether to give up and leave Gendry be. “You should think about – I swear to the Gods that I’m not just saying this for the other lads or anything – it’s just, think about trying out for beater next year, yeah?”

They had just walked in on Gendry acting like a lunatic, and Domeric was asking Gendry to join a team? Gendry was incredulous and he must have looked it.

“I mean it,” Domeric said. “I think you could be really good. And that it could – it’s just that… All anyone thinks of when it comes to beaters is that they need to be some big brute to mess with the other side. Well, that’s not exactly wrong. But being a beater isn’t just about breaking things or, or making a mess of the opponents.” Domeric slowed down and stopped stumbling as he chose his words.

Gendry sent a look past Domeric towards his trunk, the closed lid hid the broken glass jar Gendry had just broken not five minutes ago. A clear sign Gendry had just demonstrated how ill-suited he was to teamwork by Domeric’s definition. Domeric ignored Gendry’s look.

“At a minimum, a beater will usually just try to mess with the other team. But they need to watch the beaters on the other side and all the players on their own team, too. See?” He could see this meant nothing to Gendry and he hurried on:

“Okay, chasers are responsible for other chasers, yeah? They play their own game, the six of them. And the keepers, of course. The seekers pretty much play their own separate game, too.

“The beaters are what connect the whole thing together. Without the beaters and the bludgers, you’re left with two separate games. It’s the bludgers that remind everyone they’re in the same game, and it’s the beaters who control the bludgers.

“A good beater will do more than just have an idea of where the other team’s fliers are so they can choose who to target. It’s the beaters’ responsibility to watch out for everyone else on the team.”

Domeric’s words hung in the air for a moment.

“Er, okay,” Gendry mumbled. “But why are you telling me?” Domeric gave a little huff.

“Listen, I don’t know what’s up with you and you don’t have to tell anyone what that is. I get that. I’m just saying think about it.

“I’ve seen your flying lessons, you’ve got a knack for it, you can handle the bat, and you’ve got some sort of chip on your shoulder. That pretty much sums up most of the beaters out there. And besides,” Domeric cast a tentative glance towards Gendry’s trunk. “You’d have a dedicated time and place to let out whatever it is you’ve got bottled up.” He took a breath.

“Just … Come next year, I’ll see if you’re interested. Beric will probably try to make you try out, anyway. Try outs will be within the first week or two of term, I expect.”

“Right,” Gendry said after a moment. Before turning away, he remembered: “Tell the others I’m taking a walk. The room’ll be empty, so…” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Domeric nodded in understanding, however, and Gendry turned and escaped from Gryffindor Tower.

Past the suit of armor, Gendry was glad, though unsurprised, to find the hidden room empty. No Headmaster Lannister, no Lady Oldstones, and no sodding mirror.

This morning, he had woken up early, feeling jittery and nervous. He had fussed over his clothes and his hair. He had become painfully conscious and worried about where his hands were.

He had met a stranger. A stranger who was his mother – or a stranger who _was still_ his mother? It wasn’t as though she had stopped being his mother, was it? He didn’t know who made the rules about this sort of thing.

A group of pigeons cooed near the window and brought Gendry’s attention up to the window. Daylight was streaming in.

Looking around, Gendry realized he had never actually spent time in this room during the daylight hours. He, Lommy and Hot Pie had discovered the room at night on Halloween. Gendry was fairly certain he had come by during the day during his period of obsessing over the mirror. But the vast majority of his time had been spent here at night, where the only light from the window was from the moon or stars.

This was his first time in the room during the day while not staring at the mirror. That thought brought another connection clicking home in his mind.

It was only midday.

It was midday, and already, he had primped and preened over his clothes, met his long lost mother, thrown a tantrum, and been recruited to join a sports team. He’d have thought those things to be very time consuming, yet he still had the rest of the day ahead of him.

“Back so soon?” Gendry jumped and tried not to swear as Lady Oldstones stared at him impassively.

“I – well, yeah,” Gendry stuttered before pulling himself together. “I was looking for some privacy.” He added meaningfully. And a little rudely.

“You seem troubled,” she continued as though she hadn’t heard him. “Why?”

Why?

A flurry of ill-defined reasons for his troubles washed over him, all in a haze of annoyance. He very sorely wanted to tell her that it was none of her business and that she could jog on. Who was she to ask anything of him? But he had seen the Smiling Septon assign a detention to Ramsay Bolton for jinxing one of the dungeon stair steps to trip anyone who tried to get to the Hufflepuff common room a few weeks back. Shouting abuse at a house ghost was hardly likely to end well.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gendry settled on the answer the thought would get her to leave him alone.

“Why?” She asked.

“Why doesn’t it matter, or why do I seem troubled?” Gendry shot back. It was like conversing with a ghostly seven-year-old. To his chagrin, she didn’t respond; simply continued to stare at him in askance.

“Because of lots of reasons, I guess.” She didn’t respond. He huffed. “Because I’ve waited years to finally meet someone and it was useless. Nothing came of it.”

“Nothing?” She repeated. Gendry gave a sour laugh.

“Nothing but a bit of rubbish.” He dug into his pocket and showed her the crinkling gum wrapper. She didn’t respond right away, staring at the wrapper.

“Rubbish,” Lady Oldstones repeated again. It seemed she was both dismissing what he was saying, while also asking whether it was truly rubbish. Her voice was as gentle as ever. Maybe even bored. Gods, she was infuriating.

“Yes, rubbish!” Gendry waved the wrapper in her face. “ _Look at it!_ ” He was met with an unsympathetic gaze.

“Then dispose of it.” Lady Oldstones said simply. She swirled and drifted to the window, where the pigeons scattered and she disappeared from view.

“Fine!” Gendry shouted after her, though she was already gone. “I will!”

It took some effort and focus, but Gendry managed to relax his fingers from around the wrapper and tip his hand so it fell from his palm. It fluttered down to land where the Mirror of Erised had once stood.

“Fine.”

Gendry only made it to the middle of the corridor outside before he felt his feet turning round to head back. He pushed past the suit of armor. The wrapper was still there, of course. He snatched it up and stuffed it back into his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Gendry doomed to trade one crutch for another?  
> I was going to put this chapter before the last one since it would follow Ned’s perspective on the visit but I felt it somehow flowed better here.  
> As for Gendry meeting Arya. I realize from the comments that people were gearing up for them to meet at St Mungo’s. All I can say is… not yet.  
> Heads up: I have the next couple of chapters written but I don’t think I’ll post them on schedule, assuming my projections are correct. This is because I have reached a point where I need to plan out the long term story in more detail. It’s possible I’ll need to tweak things in the next chapter before posting it. I don’t know exactly how long this will take – I’m currently navigating a rabbit hole of research right now.  
> As a point of reference, my prior story, Murder on the Orion Express, is about as long as this one is, now. It is an adaptation of an Agatha Christie mystery set in the Star Trek universe. Planning and writing it took me about 4-6 months total. That story takes place over the course of like two days. To be fair, it was a detail-oriented murder mystery so the details mattered a lot more. Even so, I still messed up – there’s a discrepancy in it that bothers me to this day but I don’t have the heart/energy/focus to fix it...  
> I just want everyone to know that while I might or might not update in two weeks as planned, it is not because I’ve lost interest or abandoned the story. I just need to slow myself down or else risk writing myself into a corner and having to either try to go back and fix things after things are posted or try to somehow write my way out. I’d rather do it ‘right’ the first time. (With my luck I’ll probably still find myself trapped in a mess of my own making down the road, but I might as well try to avoid that.)  
> In summation, I need to do more research and I need to make certain plot/arc/pacing decisions.


	13. The Hand IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ned attempts to mediate between his daughters. The Hand awaits the minister and makes a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you dive into this chapter:  
> I don’t like to spoil things, but I think it’s fair that you know there is some violence in this chapter. I don’t think it’s that explicit, as far as content ratings go, but I want to warn people. In other words, I don’t go into detail about blood and gore or anything. But given recent events with the US Capitol and the context of this chapter, I think some fair warning is in order.

One of these days, Ned swore he’d find a way to have a lazy morning. One where he could sleep in without waking up to the kids piling on top of him. Granted, only Rickon really did that anymore, and even he was petering out. Arya had recently taken to sneaking into Jon’s room and dumping a mug of icy water on his face by way of a morning wake up. He had no idea half the things Arya got up to these days, but knowing the other half, he was glad not to. At least Jon would rein in some of her more ill-advised ideas.

As it was, Catelyn shook him awake and told him he needed to be down for breakfast in thirty minutes. He checked the time.

“I’m not scheduled for the ministry for another three hours,” Ned groaned, wanting to turn over and go back to sleep.

“You need to deal with the girls,” Cat snapped back. “They had another fight yesterday, and then again last night. A bad one. They were in rare form last night – which you conveniently avoided by taking tea with the muggle PM – and I can never get through to Arya. I won’t have them bickering by Bran’s side…” Her face twisted as her brain caught up with her words and she struggled to maintain her composure.

“I’ll be right down,” Ned said quickly. “I’ll shower and be down in ten.”

As he headed down the stairs, he stopped to look out the windows. It was early still and the morning light was still fighting to illuminate the courtyards below. He squinted. Just there, he could pick out a pair of footsteps in the snow, tracing their way from the keep towards the godswood. The great roofs of Winterfell’s complex showed a fresh coating of snow. He smiled, knowing Cat was forever frustrated with Winterfell’s ability to find snow even with summer leaking in at the edges.

Despite the cold, he knew she loved how long the days grew during the summers. During the longest days of the year, the sun could be tracked all around, dipping past the horizon for perhaps thirty minutes before popping right back up. Those days were fast approaching, and he knew the children would soon be competing to see who could wake up earliest on the solstice.

This far north and at this elevation, it was no great surprise. Westeros’s northern regions had been warded off long ago. Long enough that the muggles mainly had memories of great forests and deep snows; wolves, deer and a plethora of wildlife, both magical and not, that had long since been whittled down to extinction in the muggle territories.

Approaching the kitchen, he could hear Catelyn coaxing and lecturing for Rickon to please eat his porridge and not dawdle about it.

“There you are dear, I was wondering if you’d make it – Rickon, stop that and eat – I don’t know where Arya’s gotten to, her breakfast is getting cold – Sansa, do you know where she’s gone?”

“No, mother.” Sansa said sulkily. “We’re not attached at the hip, I don’t know her every move.”

“Well go and find her then,” Cat responded without skipping a beat. Sansa slid from her chair and stood to do her mother’s bidding.

“You might try the Godswood,” Ned suggested. “I think I saw footprints headed that way.” Sansa nodded gloomily and dragged her feet on her way out. Ned turned to Catelyn who quickly shot a look at Robb who took the hint and scooped up Rickon’s porridge and nudged his younger brother. Rickon also took the hint and allowed himself to be shepherded along. They would continue the battle in getting him to finish eating elsewhere.

“What was it this time?” Ned asked, hoping for a hint that would help him try to mend whatever new rift had arisen between the girls.

“Arya put a bag filled with sheep dung under Sansa’s seat cushion yesterday,” Cat sighed. “When Sansa sat down during their lesson with Professor Mordane, the charm keeping the dung inside the bag broke and the smell got out – it’s not funny!” She snarled when she saw Ned’s mouth twitch.

“She’s getting out of control. She’s turning eleven soon. If you keep coddling her like this she’ll be incorrigible.”

“I know it’s not funny,” Ned tried to placate her. He knew he hadn’t really succeeded, but he had truly been expecting something far worse than a childish prank.

From beyond the kitchen and at the end of the foyer, they could hear the door slam and two voices bickering, spoiling for a larger fight.

“You always do this! You start something and then everyone else has to deal with the fallout. Do you ever think of anyone other than yourself?”

“You should talk! I’m surprised you could even smell the sheep dung over the stench of your own ego. Has it ever occurred to you that you’re not inherently better than anyone else?”

“Oh, shut it with your constant whinging! You’re just jealous that I wanted to spend five minutes with someone else instead of trudging on another stupid hike to climb yet another stupid tree!”

“Am not!”

“Oh really? Why is it that every time I hang out with Beth or Jeyne, you find a way to ruin it? You _always ruin everything!_ ”

“I _don’t always_ ruin things with you and Beth or-!”

“Yes you do! You got Beth’s robes all covered in mud and slush right before she was meant to see Tym, and we all know it’s because you’re jealous!”

“Why would I be jealous of Tym, of all people? Tym’s not all that great.”

“Not of Tym, you absolute numbskull! Of _Beth_! You’re just jealous no one’s ever going to ask you out for a date because Jeyne is right! You’re a nag, you’re Arya Horseface! With your horsey face and your horsey-”

_Crash!_

Ned and Catelyn ran to the foyer to see that Arya had knocked a vase of carnations over and shattered it, spilling flowers and water everywhere. Jon, who had evidently been trailing them while the sisters fought, was kneeling down and had drawn his wand.

Before their eyes, he had mended the vase and waved the water back into it. He gently picked up the flowers and arranged them back in. Looking up and seeing the parents, he quickly stood and replaced the vase on the table.

“I fixed it,” he said uselessly, nervously. “It’s as good as new.”

“It should never have been broken,” Cat said stiffly, and turned away from Jon to fix a glare at Arya. Jon deflated and beat a quick exit upstairs to shelter the storm with Robb and Rickon.

“Just because the consequences can be fixed does not mean it’s _ever_ appropriate to act out regardless of the consequences! Arya, _when_ will you learn that breaking things is never the answer?” To Ned’s dismay, Arya was fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry about the vase, I didn’t really mean to,” she hurriedly said. “But what about-”

“Don’t what-about me!” Cat snarled back. “You never think things through, Arya! Ned!” She whirled on him. “You said you’d handle this and here I am, I’m always the bad guy!” She smacked the apron she had been wearing into his chest.

“Sort this out!” She stalked off towards the cloak room to retrieve her cloak. “Remember, I’ll be gone for the rest of the day, I need to take care of a few things at the office and then I’ll be visiting my father.

“Ned, if I’m not back in time, please make sure Rickon eats something other than Bertie Bott’s Beans for supper! He keeps spoiling his dinner. And make sure Robb’s not in charge of Rickon’s supper – his solution is to mix those sordid beans in with his food – he’s probably putting them in Rickon’s porridge as we speak!”

The house was decidedly quieter after Catelyn had closed the door. They could ever so faintly hear her footsteps retreating towards Winterfell’s southern gate where she could disapparate.

“Erm,” Arya piped up. “I’m just going to put these in water.” Ned belatedly noticed that she had bunches of flowers in her hands. Most of them were grown in the greenhouses, but a few looked as though they were from the Godswood. She disappeared into the kitchen and Ned could hear the drawer where they kept dishtowels open and close followed by the sound of sniffles. Turning to Sansa, he found that Sansa was also angrily wiping away tears on her sleeves.

“Come on,” Ned guided her to the sitting room. For all his grumbling that morning, Cat had been right to drag everyone up early this morning. If she hadn’t, St Mungo’s might need to admit anyone who had the misfortune of getting too close to their fights as new patients.

Once in the sitting room, Ned conjured a small pot of tea and dug out a box of lemon cakes from the side table drawer. He poured the tea and offered a saucer of Sansa’s favorite cakes and together they sat for a moment while they chewed and sipped.

“Aren’t you going to _say something?_ ” Sansa burst out. Ned marveled at how alike she was to Catelyn. Not only was she her mother’s carbon copy when they had been at Hogwarts together, but she had managed to produce her mother’s exact tone.

Maybe Ned was just afraid of that tone because Cat had been Ravenclaw’s Head Girl, a year ahead of him. It had been Catelyn who had so often caught him and Robert when they were misbehaving. He was pretty sure Gryffindor had lost out on the house cup during their sixth year because Cat had deducted so many points from them. Robert was still convinced that Cat had secretly done it to help her house edge them out. Whether it was true or not, Ravenclaw had indeed won the house cup in time for her graduation.

“What would you have me say?” Ned asked curiously. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew it was probably poor form to ask solely to see whether he could understand Catelyn more, but he couldn’t help himself. She huffed and crossed her arms, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

“ _I_ don’t know! _Your_ the father!” Ned stifled a smile that threatened to creep up. It was amazing, how she managed to do and say those things all in one smooth motion.

“I think you have an idea of what I might say,” Ned tried teasing. But she shook her head and more tears started to pool while she looked anywhere but at him.

“Sansa,” Ned started again. Gods, how was it that out of six children, only two of them took more time and energy than the rest combined? Except for Bran, whose condition was dragging everyone to exhaustion, the two girls brought more grey hairs than the rest of them.

Right now they were about as different and divided as anyone he’d ever met and each was a force to be reckoned with. He shuddered to think of the trouble they could cause if they ever got over their differences and put their heads together.

“Tell me what happened. From the start.” For a moment, Sansa looked lost as she tried to rack up the many offenses Arya had committed over the last period of however much time. He hurried to amend it:

“How about you start with the seat cushion yesterday?”

“I was supposed to show Professor Mordane my progress in charms. I’ve been practicing and practicing and I’ve finally gotten everything down perfectly! But then when I went to sit down after my demonstration, Arya had put that stupid sack under my seat cushion and it burst and the smell was horrible and Professor Mordane thought it was me for a moment and then Arya was laughing and even Robb and Jon were trying to pretend like they weren’t and then Septa Mordane had to use scourgify at least ten times on everything, but the smell was still there so we had to open all the windows and then it was _still_ there! And then finally I realized some of the dung had dropped to the floor and I had stepped in it and it was under my shoe and that’s why the smell wouldn’t go away and Arya was still laughing even though Professor Mordane told her not to and gave her detention!

“And it’s not like detention is even a thing that works on her anyway! She enjoys them! It doesn’t matter if it’s writing lines or cleaning the floors the muggle way or reordering Professor Luwin’s books or anything! It’s like she wants to be a muggle, and detention just gives her an excuse to pretend that she is one!”

Ned put his hand out to pat Sansa’s arm and hopefully stem the long outburst. She took another shuddering breath and wiped her eyes. Ned decided to ignore the bit about Arya enjoying her detentions – while her penmanship had certainly improved from the many, many lines she’d had to do over the last year, Arya certainly didn’t enjoy all of her detentions. She had disappeared to wherever she went after enough of them to make that much obvious.

“Sansa, whatever Arya might say out loud, I know you’re not a vain person. Is all of this turmoil _really_ because of the sheep dung?” After a moment, she shook her head. “Will you tell me what it’s really about?” She took a shuddering breath.

“I worked so hard to get it all right.” Sansa finally said. Her flood of words earlier seemed to have drained her. “And I knew that Professor Mordane was going to give me my highest marks for charms yet.” She paused and sighed.

“I know that none of this affected my grades or anything, but I just wanted to get a bit more praise or acknowledgment of all the work I’ve put in or _something_. And instead it all turned into a fiasco and it’s all because Arya doesn’t care about anything.”

“I’m sorry you had your moment taken from you,” Ned counseled. “It was unfair of her to take it from you and she shouldn’t have done that. As for Arya not caring about anything, do you really think that’s true?” Sansa rolled her eyes a bit.

“Aside from quidditch or sneaking into the Wolfswood?” Ned gave her a look to tell her to take it seriously. “Well, she cares about Jon. And you. And Robb and Bran and Rickon. But she’s never liked me, not like everyone else.

“And it’s not _fair_. She’s an idiot, but she’s just good at everything without even trying. Outside of charms, there are only a few spells here and there that I can get better than her, and sometimes one of my potions will turn out perfectly while she wasn’t paying attention to hers, but that’s because she doesn’t always try.

“She’s already started arithmancy with Professor Luwin and just last week he was telling her about _how amazing_ she is. It’s just like maths all over again.

“I’ll spend hours and hours trying to figure out how to solve some problem and Arya will just glance at it and already know the equation inside and out! Mostly she just sails around while everything comes naturally to her. She’ll see some transfigurations or defense against the dark arts spell and do it just like that. She’s even been sneaking into King Theon’s collection and teaching herself how to do some of them.”

Sansa couldn’t meet Ned’s eyes at that last bit. It revealed her own culpability in partaking in the same act. Sneaking King Theon’s spells from the library was probably the first thing his daughters had in common in years, so he let it pass. He’d done the same thing at their age after all.

“But I have to work at every, single thing. And Professors Luwin and Mordane are nice and they’ll say when I’ve done a good job, but I can tell that inside their minds they aren’t as impressed with me as they are with her. Master Forel is nice and he does his best with me but I’ll never be as good as Robb, let alone Jon. And I’ll _never_ be able to beat Arya, or even Bran or Rickon when the two of them get older.

“I just don’t understand how she’ll do all these amazing things but then she’ll go and do something so monumentally stupid or selfish! She’ll try to climb some tree like a muggle when it’s covered in ice and then act all surprised when she slips and falls and she’ll tell us all that we shouldn’t have worried. Or she’ll experiment and blow something up and then she’ll get all this praise for how adventurous and promising she is.

“And I _know_ you love me but I also know you love her more. She looks like you and she’s your favorite and she’s like you and, and – _I’m older than her, and she can still do things that I_ _can’t!_ ”

It was like hearing bits of his own monologue regarding his siblings from when he was a child. But where to start with all that Sansa had dumped on him?

He decided not to try pointing out that Sansa’s view of Arya’s prowess was severely skewed. In no way was Arya instantly good at things; she did put in hard work and often failed to master things right away. Sansa was simply blind to that part. Besides, Ned had a feeling that pointing out Arya’s failures and the work she put in to correct them would probably cause Sansa to become even more neurotic.

Ned wanted to point out that Professor Luwin had commented quite a bit on Sansa’s academic achievements, that her charms work was phenomenal. Everyone knew Sansa was handy with herbology. Professor Mordane had even requested that Sansa be given additional leeway in the greenhouses. But Sansa wasn’t in a place to hear those things at the moment; she’d likely take it as some sort of consolation rather than a statement of fact.

“I don’t love any one of you more than another,” Ned said, needing to address that first. Seeing her unimpressed expression, he hurried on. “All parents play favorites in some way or another, that’s true. And I’ll admit Arya is special to me. But that doesn’t make you any less special or loved.” He paused, trying to organize his thoughts.

“I love Arya’s loyalty and her spirit, the freedom she carries with her. I probably love that bit of her over the rest of you. But I also love your resilience and determination. I reckon you’ve got more of it than all the rest combined. Your work ethic. I haven’t seen anyone with your level of determination.

“Robb and Arya might have things come naturally to them. Jon's probably the most promising dueler I've ever seen and Bran’s got a bigger brain than just about anyone, but you have the focus to accomplish anything you set your mind to. You truly are clever; you just need to let yourself see it.” Sansa looked both unconvinced and a little hopeful.

“You might think Arya takes after me because she looks like me, and superficially that’s true enough. But if you ask me, she takes after your aunt Lyanna and uncle Brandon far more than me.”

“The wolf-blood,” Sansa said. “I know, you’ve mentioned it before.” But Ned put up his hand.

“If you ask me,” Ned continued. “You take after me more than any of the others.” She frowned.

“I had many of the same feelings as you when I was growing up. I grew up in the shadow of an older brother who was constantly lauded as one of the most promising wizards of our generation. He was strong, powerful, and charismatic.

“I would study and practice for days and days and hardly make any improvement. Whereas Brandon would ignore everything before finally picking up a book. He’d flip through it and get some new spell on his first try.” He sighed.

“And I was older than her, but Lyanna always seemed to outshine me, too. She was an incredible chaser where I never even made the school team except as an alternate. She was incredibly bright. It was as though she needed only to listen to a lecture and she could think on it for a few minutes and then carry on a fantastic debate with the professor and have them eating from the palm of her hand.

“And there I was, this lackluster disappointment sandwiched in between them.” He looked over to find Sansa watching him with new eyes.

“One time, while on a summer holiday, I’d finally had enough of being less than Brandon and Lyanna and I went to my father and complained. I’ll tell you what he told me; I think it applies to you just as much as it did to me.

“Others might not see it in you, but the same blood runs through you and Arya both. We only survive winter by banding together. And winter is always coming. I complained to my father that I was so much slower to pick things up than Brandon and Lyanna. Your grandfather told me this:

“Glaciers are slow. And here in the North, they shape the land. They climb over mountains, they carve through them to make passes, or sharpen them, or grind them down into valleys. Your mother might complain about Arya’s wolf-blood, her wildness, but she’s a southerner. Southerners only understand parts of our lives and history up here.

“They saw Brandon had a hot temper. They saw Lyanna was free. They didn’t see beyond that.” Ned trailed and briefly lost himself in memories of his own childhood woes, now colored with bittersweet nostalgia.

“It’s true. I think you take after me more than you realize; more than your mother realizes. But don’t tell her I said that.” That elicited a small smile. She finally seemed reassured that she wasn’t less loved than her sister or the others.

“But tell me,” Ned started again. “Beyond the prank. Why are you and Arya at each other’s throats?” Sansa’s expression crumpled into anger and Ned worried at having ruined whatever progress he’d made.

“She _does_ ruin everything,” Sansa insisted. “She might be good at everything, but it’s like she doesn’t care about anything. She _knew_ how much I wanted to impress Professor Mordane yesterday, and she ruined it anyway.”

“Arya will come around – she’ll grow and mature and learn to control her impulses. She’s driven towards impulsiveness. It makes her reckless. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t care about things. Or you. And you know her; do you really think nothing prompted her to come up with that prank?”

“She’s angry with me,” Sansa said glumly, kicking her foot at the rug. “She’s jealous.” Ned let the silence hang for a moment, hoping that she would elaborate on her own, but she didn’t.

“I heard you from the kitchen this morning,” Ned told her, and he was rewarded with a guilty look. “Are you sure it’s just jealousy that might make Arya upset with you?” A miserable, half-hearted shrug. He sighed.

“You are sisters,” he repeated. “Family, no matter how different the two of you may be. You need to support one another. I’m not saying that she should ever do what she did, you didn’t deserve that. And it’s always good to have friends outside of your family. _But:_

“Sacrificing the feelings of one for the approval of another is to betray them both.” She was staring at him with her giant blue eyes.

“Don’t think I haven’t heard Jeyne bullying and calling Arya names before while you stand by in silence. This isn’t the first time, but it _will be the last_. Do I make myself clear?” A look of abject humiliation took over Sansa’s face. She nodded.

“Yes, father.”

“When you have a moment, you’ll do what?” Ned asked her. She took an arduous breath and looked down.

“I’ll apologize for calling her Horseface.”

He hugged her and left her to compose herself and finish off the tea and cakes. Checking the kitchen, he found two small jars had been filled with water and flowers. One of them had been placed next to the place where Ned would usually eat. The other was sitting on the counter next to the door, and Ned guessed Arya meant to bring it to Bran.

She wasn’t in her room, nor in his office. She would sometimes wait for him in his office when she knew she was in trouble. He checked the dueling hall next. It had formerly been a gallery connecting two of the keeps, but they had converted it into a dueling room when they had hired Syrio Forel.

The dueling hall held Syrio, who was giving pointers on stance to Rickon while Robb and Jon watched. Rickon had recently turned eight, and was still getting used to his wand, which he had gotten from Master Aemon’s last year. They still often kept it away from Rickon when he wasn’t at lessons, lest he set something off on accident. Or on purpose. It was difficult to tell with Rickon.

“Have any of you seen Arya?” Ned asked the assembled group. The received a collection of shrugs and head shakes. Jon piped up:

“You might want to check the godswood. She still wanted to add a few bits to the flowers when Sansa came to get us.” He nodded and withdrew.

Jon was right. It was Jon, so of course he was right. He checked his watch and nodded to himself. He still had some time before he was needed at the ministry.

Ned passed through the gates into the godswood. The dusting of snow clung to the many trees and coated the odd icicle. The sun was just barely cresting the distance in this part of the grounds. Light was hitting the ice and casting brilliant showers of light into an otherwise grim place. Cat had always seemed ill-at-ease here, but perhaps she had never experienced it when it was like this.

This was a place Ned had always loved. Brandon, Lyanna, and even Benjen had often told him he was too trapped in his head. But here, Ned had always felt in his element. It was dark and shadowy. It was bright. It was murky and clear all at once. It contained all the shades of grey and Ned was free to contemplate them to his heart’s content.

It seemed as though he was not alone in trying to find answers here this morning. Ned traced along the footsteps in the snow where Jon, Arya and Sansa had trekked through already. Ahead, a figure shifted under the brush, showering themselves with twigs and dew.

“There were some frostdrops blooming by the gate,” Ned called when he found her crouching at the foot of a beech tree beyond the weirwood. “They might make a nice addition.”

“They’ve already bloomed,” came a slightly sullen answer. “Besides, they’d just shrivel and die as soon as they’re taken inside.” Ned crouched next to her. “I found these, though.” Arya turned towards him and pulled the branches of a few shrubs back to reveal some snowbuds. The small blooms counter-intuitively thrived with slightly warmer air, and would probably last a few days as long as the water was cold.

“They’ll make fine additions.” Ned smiled at her. But she couldn’t return the smile. He sighed. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on with you two?”

“No.”

Arya was always honest, he’d give her that.

“Why?”

“Because it won’t make any difference,” Arya said, pulling out her wand and carefully casting a controlled cutting jinx to sever the snowbuds near the base, careful to leave the leaves and roots untouched. Ned sighed. Of course she wouldn’t simply give in.

“Tell me anyway.”

Arya huffed and Ned was reminded of Sansa’s exact attitude not thirty minutes earlier.

“I _am_ sorry about the vase,” Arya started. “But Sansa just made me so angry and before I knew it, the vase was broken on the floor.” Ned put a hand on her shoulder to get her attention.

“Start with yesterday,” Ned told her. He was under no illusions that he would be able to fix her self-image issues in a single morning and he wanted to focus on the most pressing matter. He made a mental note to add that to his list. To his surprise, Arya gave him an incredulous look.

“It doesn’t start with yesterday,” Arya said flatly. “And it doesn’t even start with Sansa.” He blinked at her. As far as he knew Arya didn’t have much, if any, friction with any of her other siblings.

“Then what?”

“It’s mother,” Arya said, not meeting his eyes. “But I can’t control what mother does. And I know I can’t really control what Sansa does either, but Sansa’s only started being _this_ horrible. She’s been acting all high and mighty, especially with Jon, for the last several months now. I was just trying to head her off and take her down a few pegs. Remind her that she isn’t better than anyone else.” Ned was briefly at a loss. She rolled her eyes.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t see it. I know she hasn’t always, but Mother’s been ignoring Jon for as long as I can remember now. Years. And ever since last year she’s been downright mean to him. That’s about when Sansa started doing it too. Professor Luwin and Syrio are alright still, but Professor Mordane has gotten a lot stricter with Jon now. And I can tell you’ve _seen_ it, but you haven’t _done_ anything about it.” Ned’s stomach clenched.

_Promise me, Ned._

“So why would me apologizing for some stupid prank fix how everyone’s turning against Jon?”

“Everyone’s not turning against Jon-” Ned tried, but Arya gave him a look that made him suddenly feel small.

“Not _yet_ ,” she shot back. “But it started with Mother. And then Professor Mordane. And Sansa. Bran’s not around right now, but Rickon’s still young and he might start taking cues from Mother and the rest. Robb loves Jon but he’s never been able to stand up to her. And I haven’t seen you lift a finger to make her stop it.” Tears were suddenly threatening to overflow again, and she angrily turned away to pick up a pebble and toss it away.

“I don’t understand it.” She quavered. “Mother’s been withdrawing from Jon for years now. I know she used to love Jon. I think I remember it but not anything specific. I can’t remember the last time she actually was nice to him. He’s never done anything wrong.” She swiped at her face in frustration.

“But I _have_ done things wrong, lots of times. And she’s been angry a lot with me, too. And even when I try to be good she only ever notices Robb or Sansa and it just seems like she’s already started to hate me, too, just like she hates Jon …”

Ned couldn’t take any more. He pulled her to him and shifted to lean back against the tree.

“Stop that.” He said. “She doesn’t hate you. She could never hate you. Or Jon, for that matter.”

“But-”

“She _doesn’t_.” Ned overrode her. “She’s … it’s complicated and I’m not going to tell you all the reasons why. She _has_ been unfair to him, that’s true. But it isn’t hate. It’s because she’s worried.”

“Why is she worried?”

“It’s too long a story to tell right now, and I wouldn’t tell you today, anyway. But I promise you that your mother loves each and every one of you. And as unfair as she’s been to Jon, she’s trying. She’s human, so she’s just as fallible and imperfect as the rest of us. That goes for me, too. I’ve been terribly unfair to him. And you, through my inaction.” He looked down at her.

“You know, you’re far too perceptive for your own good, has anyone ever told you that?” Arya shrugged.

“Grandfather Rickard’s portrait says stuff like that sometimes.” Ned felt the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “He says I act a lot like Aunt Lyanna, except sometimes worse, and that I look like her, too.” It died.

“Not that any of us would know anyway, Aunt Lyanna’s frame is always empty. She’s always hiding from us like she doesn’t want anyone to see her. I know you say I look like her but I’ve never seen her face. Jeyne says it’s because she had a horsey face like me and she doesn’t feel like having people watch her.” Ned winced, but Arya didn’t notice.

“Sometimes I go down to the crypts to see her statue, but the statue just looks like a female Stark. Does she have frames in other places, like Grandfather Rickard? I like Unce Brandon’s a lot, but he’s only there every once in a while. Otherwise, he likes to spend time in his frame in Wintertown…”

Arya continued to chatter on, but Ned was busy trying not to see Lyanna. It was true, they were eerily similar looking. Whenever Robert came for dinner or the odd visit, he would comment on it. He had always brushed it off as Robert just being wistful. That, and Arya was obviously the one to look most like Lyanna out of all the children, given that only she and Jon had the Stark pigmentation.

For all their physical similarities, however, Ned found a measure of comfort in their dissimilarities. Lyanna had been a lot more like Sansa, as far as their sense of whimsy. She had been a dreamer, and had held onto fanciful ideals for as long as he knew her. Right up until-

Arya had never so much as held a passing interest for the same children's tales, preferring the ancient stories in the Legends of the Long Night by Cregan Stark, though no one remembered exactly which Cregan Stark it was who had written it. Though he didn’t know how, Arya was somehow more worldly than Lyanna had ever been at that age. On the flip side, she could also be more reckless than Lyanna, which came with a whole new set of concerns.

“… Besides, Grandfather Rickard never went to Hogwarts, isn’t that true? That he made you and your siblings go to Hogwarts to try to become more southern?

“But anyway, where does Aunt Lyanna go? She never seems to be here, but Beth says that her frame is always empty and she’s never seen her in it.”

Ned was checking his watch and standing up, however. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that her Uncle Brandon’s and Aunt Lyanna’s portraits were probably incapable of answering any in-depth questions about their subjects. Both of them had died before having much time to teach their portraits all about themselves.

“I’ve got to drop you off at the hospital soon,” he redirected her. “Let’s go get Syrio and Sansa. He’s agreed to watch you while you’re at the hospital. Have you got your things together?”

Arya nodded.

“I left the flowers and my broom in the kitchen so all I need is my cloak and then I’ll be ready.”

Her broom. Ned shook his head. He was almost certain broomsticks were not typically, or even reasonably, permitted for visitors to bring into St Mungo’s. But Ned would be there to drop her off. Besides, Sansa was not entirely wrong about her younger sister.

Arya had a way about her. If she were told the broom was not allowed, she’d probably just use her mysterious wiles to coax someone into letting her bring it in to show to her comatose brother, regardless of the reality of how futile such an exercise was. Still, he should probably try to dissuade her, lest he seem like he was abusing his position to grant extra latitude for his children.

“Are you sure you want to bring it?” Ned asked. “It’s rather new.” _And expensive_ , he thought. Top-of-the-line, in fact. Jon had gifted the Needle to her, after asking Ned to help him commission it for her.

A top-of-the-line specialty broom designed for precision flying at high speeds. They were only made upon commission because so few fliers had both the skill and the money to warrant such a purchase. Ned had nearly refused Jon’s request out of fear. He could only imagine how he would feel if such a broom were to be too much for her. He had had no interest in peeling her flattened body from whatever wall she managed to collide with.

But Ned had obliged Jon’s request that they watch her fly on Jon’s vesper. She had started to make a habit of stealing his and Robb’s brooms and she handled them with ease. That, and the argument that Robb, Jon and Sansa all received their first brooms when they were eleven had clinched it.

Arya just gave him a nonplussed look, guessing at Ned’s internal thoughts of money.

“Of course. It’s not like the price will matter to Bran. And anyway, if that one healer is right, and Bran _can_ hear us, he might hear me tell him all about my shiny new broom and get jealous. He might wake up sooner.

“Maybe we can get one for Bran, too! As a gift for when he wakes up. And then he’ll have something to look forward to while he gets better. And when he gets better we can play quidditch together, so it’ll all be worth it.” She picked at a loose thread on her cloak. “Should I change into my nicer cloak? Mother’s always telling me I need to put a good foot forward.”

“We’ll be in London,” he reminded her. “It’s in the south, so you won’t need a heavy cloak. Just a normal coat should do.” In truth, both girls would likely need to shed their coats and woolen jumpers as soon as they got to London. But he was already in hot water with Cat so sending the girls from Winterfell without some kind of warmer outer layer was asking for trouble.

“Arya,” Ned stopped them before they entered the front doors. “Back to the prank.” Wariness rose in Arya’s face so Ned hurried on. “You knew how much Sansa’s presentation of spells meant to her.” Arya nodded. “And you took that moment away from her. Regardless of anything else, it was unkind of you to do that. To your own sister. Do you understand what I’m saying?” She nodded and he gave her shoulders a squeeze.

“I won’t do anything like that again.”

“And you’re going to…?” Ned prompted her.

“I’m going to apologize for being mean to her yesterday,” Arya responded a little glumly.

“Alright then.” He straightened up. “Your mother said your breakfast was getting cold, do you want to hurry and try to eat anything?” He asked as they headed back. But she shook her head.

“I’ll just get something at St Mungo’s if I get hungry.”

If she got hungry.

Arya was a strange one. She was probably one of the best fed children in the world. She was a bottomless pit and yet she seemed to have some sort of parasite inside her that left her looking as though she were borderline neglected.

If he hadn’t watched Lyanna grow exactly the same way, he might have fed off of Cat’s worries. Lyanna and Benjen had both been on the smaller side. It wasn’t until Benjen had neared adulthood when he had suddenly sprouted and stacked on several inches.

As the girls and Syrio got ready to leave, Ned tried to reset himself. The sun was barely up and already he’d had to try alleviating hurts that had been building for years. Soon, he’d have to pick his way through the minefield that was the ministry. There was so much to do.

He was to gather Robert and Stannis make plans, once he’d returned from Flea Bottom with Robert. Probably rope Barristan Selmy into their efforts, too. They were going to kick a hornet’s nest by finally arresting several wyverns that had made themselves comfortable under his nose. He wished Benjen were there to have his back. He glanced at Arya.

Dealing with his wife’s behavior towards Jon would be another battle entirely. He had hoped, naively, that Cat would sort herself out and embrace Jon once again. But she hadn’t. And Royce and Arryn’s murders – Arryn’s by her own aunt, no less – had served to only heighten her paranoia. And she had turned cruel towards Jon.

Now with Bran in the hospital, she had started leaning on the children to parent each other. Robb and Jon had taken to looking after Arya and Rickon while Sansa helped with Rickon and while learning to rely on herself more. Cat’s fuse with Arya had grown ever shorter. He made another note to address Cat's treatment of Jon. And to tell Jon.

“Ready?” Ned asked. Rob, Jon and Rickon nodded after hugging Sansa and Arya farewell. He watched Rickon sneak a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans to Arya.

“For Bran,” Rickon whispered, trying to be secret about it. Professors Luwin and Mordane, Syrio, Sansa and the other boys were all clearly watching him and had heard him, but Arya gravely nodded anyway and put them in her pocket.

“Let’s go then.” Together, the four of them walked through the southern gates. Syrio graciously placed the jar of flowers in his pocket and held onto Arya’s broomstick for her. Ned took Sansa’s music box that she had brought to play for Bran. She had charmed it to recite a piece she had practiced. Their hands now free, the girls each took one of Ned’s hands. Ned surreptitiously noted that the girls stole wary looks at each other. The guilt was plain on both their faces. “Hold on tight.”

“Are you sure you’re alright with watching them?” Ned asked Syrio again. It was a bit too late for such a question, seeing as Catelyn was likely with her father by now and he was off to see the minister. He felt he should ask, anyway.

“Please do not worry on my account,” the diminutive man smiled. “I will guard them with my life.” He knew damn well Ned had been asking on behalf of the Braavosi’s sanity in supervising them rather than out of worry for Syrio’s ability to protect them. Still…

“Alright. If they need something that Healer Whitehill can’t help with, feel free to bring them to my office at the ministry. I probably won’t be there for a while, but that’ll be where I’ll stop in. Remember,” Ned fixed Syrio with a look. “I want them both back in Winterfell by late morning. No later than midday.” He received a solemn nod in return. With final hugs to the girls and reminders to be good and give Bran a good time, he left.

Almost.

He couldn’t help himself, so he walked the length of the hall to the other side of the floor, nodding to Clarysa Whitehill. He stuck his head into Thea Waters’ room and nodded to himself. The boy was sat next to a delicate woman with a frail, hunched posture. She had eyes that were largely blank though kind. Withdrawing, he nodded to himself.

Out of the many doubts Ned had these days, this was not one of them.

When Ned arrived at the ministry, he felt oddly out of step with time. He felt as though he’d lived an entire day, but looking around, the people around him were still yawning and shaking themselves into full wakefulness. He shook his head.

It was still a little early for Robert to meet him yet, so Ned trudged to his office. He may as well get started on some paperwork.

There, on his desk, were the droppings from Royce’s owl. She wasn’t there, thank the Gods, but she had clearly not given up on her efforts to continue pestering him. With a wave of his wand, the droppings disappeared, though they still left smudges of evidence behind on his copy of a request for the Mirror of Erised’s destruction. Stannis had insisted Ned expedite the request. As if Ned had any control over what the Office of Mysterious Magical Artifacts ultimately did.

Ned wrote out an interoffice memo to Barristan Selmy. He had gone back and forth over whether he wanted Selmy to attend Ned’s meeting to help plan the ministry’s cleanup. In the end, he decided Selmy would be best sent to Essos. He was levelheaded, balanced and wise.

Selmy was a knight and a former member of the Kingsguard. Ned could send Selmy to Essos per Robert’s orders to follow the Targaryen children. Best of all, Selmy neither wished for another Aerys to sit the throne, nor did he wish to harm the children he had once sworn himself to protect. He had the honor that Jaime Lannister lacked and valued the lives of the children in a way Robert didn’t.

Ned quickly drew up the proper paperwork that granted Selmy the freedom of movement of a Ranger. Tapping the interoffice memo, Ned magically folded it and sealed it, leaving the additional paperwork enclosed. Another tap tasked it to deliver itself to Selmy. The old knight would leave for Essos at his earliest convenience.

It was as Ned was getting his desk organized and the inbox basket on his desk was looking pleasingly manageable that he noticed the weight in his pocket. Reaching in, he realized he still had Sansa’s music box that she’d wanted to bring to Bran and play for him. He wrote a note to his assistant Barth and left the box and note on his desk where he knew Barth would see it.

Hopefully, Barth would be able to make sure it got to Syrio if and when he brought the girls to the ministry to collect it from him. He stood and left his office, his watch telling him it was finally time to meet with Robert.

It would be another long day. Meeting the Motts with Robert. Then with both Robert and Stannis that afternoon. They could figure out precisely how to rid the ministry of wyverns. Depending on the plans they made this afternoon, Ned would be able to say that the ministry was free of the damn loyalists this time next month.

Ned arrived in the atrium and loitered by the atrium’s fountains so as to be able to head straight to Flea Bottom without having anyone try to commandeer time with the minister.

“Morning, Mr. Stark,” Ned turned his head to see Varys smiling a strange smile.

“Morning Varys,” Ned greeted back.

“Has anyone ever told you that you often bear an aura of someone chased by a constant cloud of doom and gloom?” Varys asked with an odd look. Ned blinked.

“No cloud,” Ned said dryly. “Just Royce’s owl.” Varys gave a polite giggle, but it didn’t seem natural.

“What brings you here this fine morning?” Varys asked him.

“I work here.” Ned didn’t know what sort of game Varys was playing, but he always had the distinct feeling Varys enjoyed toying with him.

“True, true,” Varys tittered. “Still,” he leaned in. “What brings you _here?_ This morning?” Ned felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. Varys had always given Ned a queer feeling, but this was new.

“I have a meeting. Why?” But Varys gave him another strange smile.

“I, too, have had last minute surprises crop up. I find in these cases that it’s best to make do with what you have. To cut your losses and try again.” Ned stared at the shorter, rotund man. He had his hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes and his face transformed into a look of pity.

“I’m afraid I must go,” Varys continued. “I truly hope to see you again soon. But I fear that will only happen if you rearrange your priorities. Sometimes it’s best to let go of the old and focus on the new.” With a final, pitying look, Varys whirled and strode away at an uncharacteristically brisk pace.

It was odd, because Varys was typically to be found somewhere in the back offices at all hours. And to see him striding towards the exits when it was barely ten in the morning was a first.

“Morning, sir.” The smirk of Jaime Lannister could have lit up a room. Between the top auror’s golden hair, his brilliant smile and perfect complexion, Jaime Lannister seemed to be his own light source. Ned had always wondered just how deeply Jaime’s lackadaisical attitude went. Did it irk him that Ned was Jaime’s boss, though Jaime was older and more experienced? Was he smug that Ned was constantly haggard while Jaime still enjoyed being a bachelor with women swooning when he passed? It suddenly occurred to Ned that Jaime, too, was angled towards the exits.

“Morning, Ser Jaime.” Ned repeated. “Where are you off to, then?” To his surprise, Jaime’s brows briefly knit themselves together in confusion before smoothing back out to form a perfectly easy, if bemused, smile.

“I’m on my way out on an assignment. I’m to relieve Ser Barristan in guarding the muggle PM – Oh Gods, I’m late already.” He exclaimed, glancing down at his watch. “Selmy’ll have my hide for this.” And before Ned could call him back Jaime was off at a brisk trot. He turned into one of the floo entrances and disappeared in a flash of green flames. Ned frowned.

What in the hells was Jaime on about?

Ned briefly wondered whether Jaime had been drinking or otherwise using some substance that impaired his higher functioning. But as carefree and relaxed as Jaime was, even Ned doubted he would do something so unprofessional as that. Still, surely Jaime remembered that he, Ned Stark, was currently the Ministry Hand?

As Hand, he was head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which included it’s subdivision, the Auror Office where Jaime worked. More than that, Ned was the sole person directly responsible for the protection of the muggle Prime Minister. Any assignments to protection detail would need to be approved by Ned directly.

To say that Ned disliked Jaime Lannister would be an understatement. Once a member of the Kingsguard, he had been sworn to protect King Aerys. A man Ned and Robert had admittedly been attempting to defeat, yes, but Lannister was not them. He had sworn an oath. He could have walked away. He could have done a thousand things differently. And he had chosen the single option that Ned could not abide.

But as distasteful as Ned found Jaime Lannister, even he had to admit the auror had never done anything to Ned. Further, Jaime was never one to put on an act beyond his typical attitude of harmless arrogance. His reaction had seemed to be genuine confusion. Something was wrong; someone had broken protocol and sent Jaime to guard the PM.

It was strange.

It was possible it was a mix-up. Then Ned would be dealing with someone’s form of foolish ambition. Whoever it was had another thing coming. Jaime was certainly one of the most capable duelers in Westeros. But to send Jaime without Ned’s authorization was more than straying from their lane and Ned would make sure they knew without doubt that attempting to change the muggle PM’s protection in such a way was an offense that could easily lead to suspension or demotion if not outright dismissal.

It was also possible that whoever sent Jaime to the muggle PM had nefarious intentions. If it were indeed no mix-up, then Ned was at a further loss. Jaime was, in Ned’s opinion, grating and distasteful. He was unprofessionally informal and arrogant. If Ned were honest with himself, he simply did not like Jaime at a personal level.

But Jaime Lannister was also known to be cavalier regarding politics. He would not harm the PM, or take any sort of political action, out of a sense of righteousness or political motivation. For all that he looked like it, he was not his father. And he was a Lannister. Attempting to bribe him was laughable.

It was when Ned saw Kettleblack that Ned finally dispelled his circular thoughts on Jaime Lannister.

He casually relaxed his wrist, ready to release his wand from his sleeve and drop it into his waiting hand. It had been a while since he had felt the need to keep his wand in his sleeve rather than its usual pocket.

Ned didn’t trust Kettleblack. He was certain he was a wyvern. Kettleblack had certainly been a staunch enough loyalist during the war, for all that he tried to hide those sentiments nowadays.

Ned took a moment to look around with his peripheral vision. It was just before ten. The atrium should have been sparsely populated. The majority of any traffic should have been largely incoming. Yet there was a steady trickle of people exiting the ministry.

Some looked confused while a colleague grabbed hold of their sleeve. Others looked nervous or afraid as they made their way to the floo stations. Most looked to be some combination of distracted and focused, much like Jaime Lannister had.

There was certainly incoming traffic. But none of them were stopping at the visitor’s desk. And they seemed to be content to mill about the atrium, rather than continue on to the elevators to a specific department.

When another shiver ran up his spine, Ned let his instincts take over and felt his wand slide into his hand.

“ _Expulso!”_

Wand in hand, Ned whipped it up in time to block the attack from behind. It was a masked figure, a witch he didn’t recognize and who likely didn’t work there, judging by the ragged state of her robes. One of the people to flow into the atrium in the last few minutes.

“ _Stupefy!”_ Ned shouted back. He didn’t have time to celebrate seeing the witch drop because he was instantly on the defense from Kettleblack and two other masked figures, though Kettleblack had now conjured a mask.

With a jolt, he found he could not disapparate.

It was all a set up.

Varys’s remarks had been some sort of warning, no doubt, to encourage him to cut his losses and live to fight another day. But Ned had had no idea what Varys had meant. It didn’t matter much, anyway. Even if Ned had understood, he couldn’t have just left; he couldn’t simply leave Robert to walk into a trap. Not when Ned himself was the bait.

 _H_ _e could leave now_.

It was the obvious, pragmatic thing to do. It was the easy thing to do, with so much confusion everywhere. It would be relatively simple for him to fight is way to one of the exits and keep going until he could disapparate.

 _He should leave now_ , the pragmatic part of him insisted.

Ned found himself running down random halls, dodging hexes and sending back his own. He ran up stairs and turned corners hoping he wasn’t dodging one jinx only to run into another.

He needed to get back to the atrium. Robert was planning to meet him there. He couldn’t just leave him.

“ _Bombarda!”_ The glass shattered and Ned prepared to jump from one of the windows back down into the atrium but a sudden thought stopped him and he narrowly avoided a cutting hex that flew past his shoulder.

There were too many of them and Robert clearly wasn’t their only goal.

The _prophecy_.

He swore as he flung a hex back at some of his attackers. Even if he beat back the attackers, it would only serve to have bought some time.

Some people were all the same, if given power.

People like Varys and Cersei. Even Stannis. Although the severe man would never admit it, Stannis saw the world as a game of chess, too. They were all determined to treat systems of government as a game and people as mere pieces. And now that Ned knew beyond a doubt that he had been outplayed he was determined to do more than just even the playing field.

The people he was fighting had no sense for rules, so could he justify breaking one himself? An argument could be made that he had a moral obligation to do what was necessary. Why apply a self-imposed handicap when he knew his opponents held no such reservations?

But the ramifications of what Ned was considering would be resounding. It would change far more than the conditions of their current struggle, he was sure. Precisely what, he couldn't say. There were so many angles that were not understood and Ned vacillated as he ducked and hexed and ran.

There would be no going back.

 _Godsdammit_ , he didn’t have the time to think this through! And who was he to unilaterally make such a choice?

But someone had to. Someone would. If not Ned, then someone else; perhaps someone with fewer scruples.

Ned came to a decision and he found he was both disturbed by it and also freer. Lighter.

There would be no going back.

But he needed to move. Now.

“ _Bombarda maxima!”_ He was satisfied to find that the wall in front of him was destroyed, along with the wall at the other side of the room behind it. He stepped through the hole in the wall and flicked his wand to send the furniture in the room crashing at the entrance, barricading it to buy himself a few more seconds.

He stepped through the hole in the far wall and was surprised and grimly satisfied to see yet another wall beyond it had also been blasted through. He had not meant to do quite that much damage. It put him into a hallway that would lead him to where he wanted to go. Once he broke through another floor or two.

“ _Bombarda!”_ The floor gave way to the floor below and Ned dropped down, and found that it was somehow empty.

His past self might have recoiled at his present actions, yet his wand felt positively _alive_.

The length of poplar now leapt into action at his inclination and he swore he could feel it singing in his hand. As he crept and dueled and dodged and ran through the halls, slowly working his way towards his destination, he wondered if his wand had itched for this very moment, when he made his decision.

Unbidden, he remembered the day he had bought it, surrounded by the dusty shelves of Master Aemon Targaryen’s shop.

“ _Poplar_ _and unicorn hair, nine and three quarter inches,_ _ **perfectly**_ _straight.”_ Master Aemon had intoned as he handed Ned the wand he’d had all these years. That warmth, that song had flowed through him that day, too. Gods, it had been so long since his wand had sung for him.

“ ‘ _If you seek integrity, search first among the poplars,’ ”_ Master Aemon had chuckled the old maxim all those years ago. _“_ _This wand has been waiting for the right match for quite some time, my boy. A great many witches and wizards have paraded through here over the years. None before you have had the right balance of consistency_ _and_ _strength._ _U_ _niform power balanced with_ _unwavering_ _morality.”_ He had fixed Ned with a purple-eyed stare despite being blind.

“ _I sense a level of uncertainty in you, young man. Go on, what worries you?”_

“ _I …”_ Young Ned had stammered. _“I don’t know that I’m truly suited to such a wand, sir. How am I to figure out what’s right or wrong all the time?”_ But the old man had merely given a dry laugh.

“ _The wand chooses the wizard, my dear boy,”_ he had laughed. _“And it is done. The wand has already chosen you.”_ He placed long, dry fingers on young Ned’s shoulders. _“This wand knew it’s match in you the moment you held it._

“ _It isn’t a matter of whether you know what is right or wrong at every turn – such delineations are subjective_ _and rather abstract_ _concepts_ _to wands. What matters is that you have moral clarity. That the journey you take with your wand is one of integrity; one where you do what you_ _ **think**_ _is right. Dwelling on the teetering scales of right and wrong will not help you, nor will it bond your wand to you. You must_ _ **decide**_ _on what you feel is right. Then you must_ _ **do**_ _it.”_

“ _Verglasio!”_ Ned whispered. A flood of water shot from his wand and he directed it down the entire corridor. The moment it touched anything solid – the floors, the walls, the intruders rounding the corner – it froze in thick, solid layers. One of the spells Brandon had taught him from King Theon Stark’s collection buried in the Winterfell library.

There were shouts of pain as the attackers realized the water was not just freezing, but growing still colder and harder the longer it froze to them. A couple of them slid on the unseen ice on the floor while others fell, attempting to hit their ice-covered limbs in an attempt to break it off of them. Ned didn’t stop to watch the results. He had yet to reach his destination.

Finally, Ned reached the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

He was surprised to find that it was largely empty. Somewhere at the far end of the floor, perhaps near the Magical Law Enforcement Squad’s offices, a couple of duels could be heard. He couldn’t tell whether he hoped the Hit Witches and Wizards on duty had been in or out of the office when the attack had begun.

Ned continued to the Improper Use of Magic Office, past an unconscious wizard and towards the back room. He stepped over the body of Jon Colyns, who had been tasked with monitoring and guarding the Scroll. He had liked Colyns.

Behind him and around the corner, Ned heard shouts and calls and he quickened his steps.

“Which way did he go?”

“He’s not in his office!”

“We need to find him! Getting Stark is our only objective!”

His stomach twisted. Did that mean Robert was defeated? Was he dead? Or was the voice simply referring to that group’s individual assigned goal? No matter; there was nothing he could do about that now.

There was no going back.

Ned stepped into the Scroll Room and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could. His wand thrummed as he cast a locking spell and an anti-intruder jinx for good measure. Given the number of people combing the ministry for him, it would only buy him a small amount of time more.

“ _Cave inimicum.”_ He whispered. Still, anyone familiar with the department would know right away that they only needed to find someone adept at protective charms to reveal the room. Having barricaded himself as much as possible, he turned around.

The room was small and circular. The center was sunk down by a couple of steps. The center of the lower level had but two items. A smallish wooden table upon which sat a giant scroll.

The Children’s Scroll.

Two feet wide and impossibly long, it sat quiet and innocent. Ned approached the Children’s Scroll, close enough that he could see the names of all the children in Westeros with the magic that made them eligible for one of the magical schools in Westeros.

If Ned were to unroll the tightly coiled layers of the scroll to reveal names from prior years, he could do so. He could unravel it and unravel it and keep doing it until he had learned the names of all the witches and wizards who had ever lived in Westeros as far back as a thousand years.

It was said that the founders of Hogwarts themselves had enchanted the scroll in order to find eligible students. Sometime later, the scroll had been charmed additionally, in order to Trace any magic used around a witch or wizard under the age of seventeen.

If the attackers or wyverns or loyalists or whoever they were; if anyone were to try to track down the Promised One, they would start here. They would use the Children’s Scroll to research each and every name and target them. And then they could use the Trace to do it.

Ned readied his wand. It thrummed in his hand as he tried to decide which spell was best.

“ _Incendio!_ ” Flames engulfed the Children’s Scroll. When they died down, the scroll was untouched. It was unsurprising, but worth a shot.

“ _Verglasio!_ ” The water coated and waxed the scroll, seeping into it and hardening into thick ice. Ned hardened it until it shattered. The Scroll remained.

“ _Expulso!_ ” Still it remained pristine.

“ _Reducto!_ ”

“ _Bombarda maxima!_ ”

“ _Confringo!_ ”

Nothing worked. Ned briefly examined his wand. It was performing feats of magic today at a level that it had never done before. Not even during Robert’s Rebellion, though Ned had a feeling that might have had more to do with his youth and inexperience.

He simply wasn’t strong enough to destroy something as potent as the Scroll. Ned doubted whether any individual was strong enough. Hells, Ned doubted that Merlin or Aegon the Conqueror could have. Aegon’s dragons though …

He couldn’t apparate and take it with him for later destruction. He didn’t have time to go find a dragon to see whether its fire could destroy it. Ned had nothing on hand that could hope to match the Scroll’s power. He froze as a thought struck him.

Ned stowed his wand. Someone may have cast an anti-disapparating jinx over the ministry, but the jinx was not all-encompassing. Not everything was bound to the same rules of magic.

Still, Ned had no idea whether this would work and could only hope it would. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought back, remembering the incantation he had learned as a boy.

“ _Hieme indicito_ _!”_ A heavy weight sank into his hand and he opened his eyes to find a sword rippling into view in his hand.

Ice. The Sword of the Starks.

For so long, it had sat in Winterfell, unmoved except when their father had permitted them to touch it. When Ned had found need for it during the rebellion, he had probably become the first Stark in generations to have taken it from Winterfell. But he had never before needed to try and summon it. That he would have need of it twice now spelled dark times.

In truth, Ned had begun to think the incantation his father had made him repeat again and again as a boy was merely a fanciful wish. A tradition that he had continued with his own children out of a sense of magical wonder rather than dire necessity. But Stark after Stark had passed it down, allegedly since its creation with the help of the Children of the Forest, thought to be long extinct by now.

The blade was grey in color. At a quick glance, it was unclear whether it was steel or something else. Its edges looked akin to chiseled ice, with conchoidal fracture patterns running its length. He had hoped to never need to so much as touch it since returning home with it at the end of the war. Despite its appearance, it felt rather warm.

Resolute now, he lifted it as the grey blade rippled and readied itself. An earlier version of himself would have been ashamed to know what he was about to do. But the niggling doubts that had plagued him for so long had dispersed.

Aside from a general sadness at the loss of such a great artifact and ancient charm, he felt only peace. He vaguely overheard his protective charm breaking and the attackers outside attempting to open or break the door in. There was no more time.

He swung down.

As soon as Ice pierced the scroll’s parchment, an ear-splitting roar emanated from the scroll. The scroll’s fibers, cut through as though it had been made of nothing more than air, now shriveled and left an enormous hole in the scroll, whose tight coils began to loosen. It didn’t unravel completely, but then it started to writhe and the roar turned into a scream.

He had had occasion to destroy magical objects before, but this was different. He was now destroying something ancient. The bits and bobs he’d destroyed in the past had simply released their magic and been done with. This – this felt altogether like he’d awakened a whole new fight.

Ned sank to his knees in agony. Though Ice sat warm and reassuring in his hand, his vision was filled with the coldest, darkest of sights. Gods.

Before him, a thousand years of ink that had listed the names of countless witches and wizards was seeping from the scroll. The names, once clear as day, were fading as the ink was sucked from the parchment. It seeped out of the folds of the scroll and dripped from the table onto the sunken floor below.

The scream started to die down and Ned was fooled into a false sense of security. He was just starting to get up when the scroll gave a final twist and a reverberant ‘Boom!’ rippled out and Ned was thrown back into the wall behind him.

After a few moments of disorientation, Ned looked up. The scroll was now dull, frayed and had a hole in it. It sat still on the dripping table, which was now surrounded by ink that welled into the lower level. But looking at it, it was clear it was no longer alive. The magic was gone.

The din of his charms breaking at the door sounded and Ned heard worldly sounds again.

“The fuck did he do?” A voice rasped from above him.

“Never mind that. Let’s just grab him and go.”

Ice was pried from his hand and Ned was hauled upright. His head spun.

“Someone grab the scroll. Maybe someone’ll be able to fix it.”

“Doesn’t look fuckin’ likely.”

“Just shut up and bring it.”

Ned was dragged back through the halls. Past the limp form of Jon Colyns’ body and down some stairs. Fighting a circuitous route from the atrium to the Scroll Room had taken what felt like a long time. Now, Ned had barely blinked and he found himself back in the atrium. There were still some skirmishes in the atrium, although they were quickly dying down now that the intruders who had spread out were now returning and could gang up on the last holdouts.

Robert lay still several meters away. He almost didn’t believe it. No matter how fat he had gotten, nor how ruddy his face had grown from his excesses, Ned’s mental image of Robert would always be of the boy he’d loved at Hogwarts. All the times Robert had visited Winterfell, the times they had gone to Storm’s End. The antics they’d gotten up to at school.

The heap on the floor meant nothing to him. But the beard, the hair and indeed the face, with its odd smile, was undeniably Robert.

It was perverse, but Ned felt an odd sense validation on behalf of his friend, for he was surrounded by many bodies of the masked intruders. If he had to die by murder, Ned suspected Robert would have felt some satisfaction at dragging a few others along with him. He could be petty like that.

“ _Come on,_ ” Robert had once cajoled Ned. He had tried to convince Ned to help him steal the house cup so they could enchant it to grow a mustache before the award ceremony. Gryffindor wasn’t going to win, anyway. “ _It’_ _s not_ _like the Stranger will come for us_ _for this_ _._ ”

“ _I follow the Old Gods,_ ” Ned had responded back.

“ _Well,_ _I’m not the sort to explore the Seven Hells by myself, you know,_ ” Robert needled. “ _So you’d better_ _suck it_ _up and come with me._ ”

Ned’s feeble attempt to redraw his wand merely resulted in a lazy:

“ _Expalliarmus!”_ And his wand was sent spinning. It landed in the fountain with a splash.

He supposed he was drained from destroying the Children’s Scroll and the Trace with it. Hands forced him to kneel and he looked up to find a view of the fountain with its golden figures still tall and proud. A pair of grey eyes peered back at him. He blinked.

_Arya?_

It was her. She was crouched, sopping, inside the fountain ensconced within the statues that splashed water down. He squinted and was both confused and relieved to see that she had her broomstick clutched to her. Why was she here, of all places, of all times? Why had she not used her broom to fly and escape all the madness? Ned belatedly realized she would have thought it too risky. The atrium was not open to the sky, and with so many spells flying every which way, Arya would likely end up falling and injuring herself or worse.

But it still begged the question why was she even here in the first place? And where were Sansa and Syrio?

The two of them stared at each other while the last of the fights died down with the ministry officials left mostly unconscious and all disarmed. When the last of the fights had truly stopped, Arya glanced around, trying to gauge the risk in attempting to fly. Seeing too many masked intruders, however, she sank even lower.

Ned dimly felt pride at her judgment. She was still impulsive and reckless, but she wasn’t as stupid as Sansa might claim. Especially now that the noise had died away, she would be easily seen and they would easily hear each other’s calls to stop her. She was safest surrounded by the loud tinkling sound of the water as it poured into the fountain’s pool.

“He had this on him?” A voice asked. Arya’s eyes widened and Ned followed her gaze back to Ice. Of course, she would recognize it anywhere.

“That’s right. Looks valuable like.” There was a smack as the owner of the first voice slapped a hand away from Ice.

“This isn’t some trinket to be bought and sold for coin!” They lifted the sword, turning it this way and that. It was somewhat awkward in their hand. “Gods, it really is freezing, isn’t it?” There was a clatter and Ice was quickly set down and the hooded, masked figure shook their hand in an attempt to warm it up. They turned to the others.

“Do you have the Childrens’ Scroll?” A pause and a nervous shuffle. “Well? We need to hurry. We can only hold the ministry for a short time. Reinforcements will come and we won’t be able to hold them off. We need to make a show of things now.”

“It’s here.” A crinkling sound and gasps. A crowd had gathered. Ned realized the crowd was made up of the masked intruders and ministry employees who hadn’t managed to escape the chaos. They had been disarmed and were being herded into the atrium. His stomach plummeted; it seemed they wanted an audience.

There were cries of shock upon seeing Robert Baratheon’s body, and murmurs of incredulity that the Minister of Magic could have been killed so simply. When the crowd saw the Children’s Scroll dead and withered, some shook their heads in disbelief. Most simply stared. Ned didn’t blame them. To destroy one of the last known artifacts of the Founders of Hogwarts was already blasphemous. To break the Trace was something some had thought to be impossible.

“What _happened_ to it?” The henchmen flinched and stammered out excuses.

“Stark locked himself in the Room of the Scroll! We tried to get in as fast as we could-!”

“-I swear, we did everything. He wasn’t even in there that long-.”

“-That screaming? And the great big boom a bit ago? That was him destroying it-.”

The lead figure had had enough. With a raised hand, the others went silent and Ned permitted himself to feel smug.

“Stark,” the hateful voice trembled with anger. “What have you done?” Ned looked into the depths of the mask’s eye holes.

“If you want the Promised One, you’ll have to find them yourself.”

“You always were insufferable.” They crouched down to one knee to come eye to eye with him. A hand reached up and shifted the mask aside, though the hood stayed on, shielding them from the crowd behind them. For a moment, terror struck him because he realized Arya might be able to see their face. If she could see them, then they could see her. But then Ned saw the face himself and felt his own face drain.

“You.”

“Me.”

Ned stared while a flurry of realizations washed over him. His mind flit from one thing to another, rapidly and with growing urgency. He struggled to string sentences together, he was so jumbled.

“Why, why are you doing this? Have you no honor? But, my – I thought you were broth-?” They waved a hand in Ned’s face, taunting Ned. He stared.

“You’re still a simplistic fool. Honor? Brothers? You think this world cares for honor? You think it cares for brothers? You’ve always been the same, haven’t you – always so high and mighty on your pedestal of honor. I swear you were born to be prefect. You’ve spent years scoffing at those who have to play the game to achieve anything. There’s no room for your precious honor. There never has been.”

Looking up into that taunting face, so many things made sense. He had so many more questions. So much he needed to do.

Cat – he needed to talk to Cat. And Benjen, when he found him. Bran, if he woke up. And Jon, he really needed to talk to Jon. And Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon. And, and, and…

“Ser Ilyn, there you are.” A smile was tossed Ned’s way. “I promised Mr. Payne he could do the honors.” Of course the former royal executioner would come out of hiding for this. The new arrival silently tucked his wand away and took up Ice. Payne was always the type who preferred to do executions manually.

There was so much he needed to do. But it seemed he was out of time. The hand lifted Ice from the floor. The face grimaced as Ice no doubt lived up to his frigid name. Payne found a new grip and raised the blade.

Past the hooded figure, Ned locked eyes with the girl crouched by the statue.

A sudden movement farther up tore his attention away, and he followed the movement. There, clinging to the raised hand of one of the statues, was Waymar Royce’s owl, flapping her wings to keep her balance. Ned suddenly realized he didn’t know her name, and wondered why he never tried to ask the Royces if they knew. She sent him a haunted look.

As Ice swung down, Royce’s owl spread her wings and took flight from the fountain. With a final look of defeat, she wheeled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: As you can see, there was an insurrectionist attack in this chapter. For whatever it may be worth, the events of this chapter were planned from the earliest stages of this story. This chapter was first drafted out a while ago, probably in December of 2020, and was largely complete by the new year.  
> Did I know the attack would happen on the 6th or that the insurrectionists would hunt through the building looking for specific targets? No, although if I’m honest, I’d be lying if I said I was very surprised.  
> It was surreal to spend months building up to this and drafting different sequences, and then watch a non-magical version of it play out on the news. Remember in my note in Chapter 1 where I mentioned I wrote this story to escape from reality? Turns out the joke is on me.


	14. The Hand V, Acting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stannis’ investigation is interrupted. The Acting-Hand has a long first day.

Stannis wasn’t the type of man to make casual wishes. If the weather was poor, tough. He would bear it with a stiff upper lip. Stannis was content to let others wish for better weather, better circumstances in life, or whatever it was that people wished for. Had he wished not to have to constantly pick up after his elder brother? Admittedly, yes.

Here he was, exiting the most miserable place he had ever had occasion to visit. Azkaban was a cold place. He stamped his feet, but refrained from rubbing his hands together. It wasn’t the temperature alone that caused him to be so cold, after all.

Robert had taken some pains to make a discreet visit here. Stannis would have been none the wiser had he not already been keeping tabs on the minister. Stannis had checked the prison’s records, the visiting logs, questioned the warden and even questioned some of those unnatural jailers.

It had been a waste. And though Stannis had attempted to get an early start on things, he was still interrupted when the prison warden had informed him that the ferry would arrive for him early. And so he had taken his leave before he had a chance to learn anything of note. Not that he had truly expected to get much more than frustration, anyway.

Despite the wretched visit to Azkaban, Stannis felt no closer to any answers. Whatever Robert thought he could accomplish by visiting the sordid place, Stannis couldn’t begin to guess. There were only two or three prisoners out of the lot that would have held any interest for Robert. In all, a day’s visit to Azkaban was a day’s waste and this morning was no different.

Azkaban.

The Targaryens had attempted their own version of it by having the Black Cells built underneath the Red Keep. A frightening place, to be sure. Fit to wear down and break just about any who would attempt treason against the crown. But they had wisely chosen to forego the very thing that made Azkaban so infamous, dementors. No one with a shred of instinct for survival would dare host dementors in the basement of their home.

Which is why Stannis was all the more miserable and annoyed. Azkaban was the only place fit to house Westeros’s worst. It was off the mainland, and warded from apparition. So Stannis was stood on a rotting dock, buffeted by the sea and a stiff wet wind while he waited for the ferry to take him back to the mainland. Ah, there it was.

Stannis squinted. Matthos Seaworth was there, piloting the ferry. He frowned.

It wasn’t that he was unhappy to see Matthos. Stannis had watched the boy grow into a promising young man. He had made sure to keep an extra close eye on the boy when the prophecy had received more attention. Realistically, he thought it doubtful that Matthos could be the Promised One. His mother was still around, for one thing. But given the terrible luck that stalked mothers in Westeros, that could change.

It wasn’t that he was unhappy to see Matthos, no. It was that this hadn’t been the plan. Davos was supposed to meet him. Davos was to check in with him. Stannis was to fill him in on the errands and meetings he had had planned for the afternoon so Davos could fill in for Stannis while he met with Robert and Ned.

“Mr. Baratheon,” Matthos greeted him quickly.

“What’s happened?” Stannis quickly seated himself so as not to be thrown by the sea swells. Matthos spun the wheel and pushed the throttle, which set them off at a brisk pace back.

“Dad sent me in his place,” Matthos said superfluously. “That meeting? The one that came up for you this afternoon? The Minister and the Hand must have had their own meeting planned for this morning. They’ve been ambushed, so Dad sent me to come get you.”

What the fuck had Robert gotten himself into? Later, Stannis would contemplate over whether his first reaction should have been annoyance at his brother, rather than concern for his welfare. But Robert had always done this – gone charging into things without much thought. And everyone like to say that Ned was a calming influence but Stannis was ready to duel the next person who so much as said so.

Ned Stark only ever calmed himself. His older brother Brandon was brash, younger sister Lyanna was wild. Even his youngest brother Benjen, another quiet one, had turned out to be no better than an adrenaline junkie, seeking out needless danger and adventure. And when he had met Robert, he had been similarly ineffectual at calming a damn thing about him.

“Ambushed by whom?” Stannis remained on subject. “How many?”

“Don’t know,” came the infuriating answer. “Dad just told me to get you back there as soon as possible. There were at least ten or fifteen from what I could tell, but I was outside the ministry. There are probably more of them inside.”

They arrived back at the mainland dock where Stannis took a moment to think before apparating. Regardless of Robert’s vices, he was no slouch when backed into a corner. The ambush, whatever it was, it had to have lasted longer than a few minutes. Which meant they were enough to keep the likes of Robert and Ned, and whoever else, busy. Apparating into the middle of a firefight would be too risky.

“The Oxen’s Tongue,” Matthos gestured towards the floo station. It seemed he and Davos had some kind of plan, then. He followed suit and stepped into the floo station and back out again. Dusting off his robes and drawing his wand, he looked around.

The pub located around the corner from the Ministry’s King’s Landing exit was fairly orderly, near as he could tell. Except… there. The windows showed people fleeing from the direction of the ministry.

He nearly tripped several times as he waded against the tide of people. Windows from the shops and pubs closest to the Ministry’s exit were blown out. Ministry officials, business owners, employees and customers all ran this way and that. He even needed to duck to avoid a blur as it shot by. Someone astride a broomstick flew from the exit and sped away into the streets and alleys of King’s Landing.

Chaos.

“Where do you think he’d be by now?” Stannis shouted over the screaming. Matthos had been trailing him thus far, following him closely so as to avoid being jostled by the running people. Now, Stannis felt Matthos’s hand on his arm as he pushed past and took the lead.

“He went into the ministry when we parted ways,” Matthos tossed over his shoulder. “Said he’d meet us somewhere else, though.” He proceeded to grab Stannis’ sleeve so as to not lose him in the crowd. Stannis resisted the urge to tear his sleeve away from Matthos’ grip and head into the ministry. What _the hells_ had Robert done, this time?

 _Somewhere else_ , as it turned out, was The Black Betha. Of course. A ways past the ministry’s entrance and down some of the sketchiest of alleys. Gin Alley. Time was getting on, and Stannis again fought the urge to shake loose from Matthos and head into the ministry.

No. That was the sort of thing Robert did.

The Black Betha was Davos and Marya’s pub. It’s status as a respectable establishment was, of course, still being acquired. Yet as much as Stannis had hated having to rely on Davos’ less-than-legal business dealings, the black-market hub had saved his and Renly’s skin during the war. Still, no amount of above-board business in the last fifteen years could erase the general feel of the place. It was a homey, welcoming place. Welcoming, that is, for anyone who’s affairs were distinctly seedy.

As the two of them pushed inside, Stannis saw the usual clientele had been cleared out and all the booths and shadowy corner nooks were empty. Tables on the main floor had been pushed together to form a larger surface and the chairs had been swept to the sides and stacked onto the tables in the booths. A small group had arranged themselves around the collection of tables.

“What’s happened?” Stannis barked. Davos was there, spreading out a large… map of the ministry’s layout. In the corner was a ministry watermark, showing it was an official copy. How he had obtained such a thing, Stannis didn’t want to ask.

“It’s an insurrection,” Axell Florent spoke up from across the table. Like several others around the table, he was valiantly trying to avoid examining the elicit maps, while also staring at the official markings. “Probably loyalists.”

“The minister?”

“I never saw him, but you know him,” Axell gave a half shrug. Did Stannis ever.

Robert was perpetually late to anything scheduled, early to anything unplanned, absent to anything required and would sometimes show up unannounced where there was no invitation. He was sometimes so unreliable that the only reliable way to know where he’d be was to keep tabs on Ned Stark…

“The Hand?”

“I saw him in the atrium, by the fountains,” Imry Florent piped up. “It looked like he was waiting for someone.” Stannis gripped the table.

Robert had shown up at Stannis’ door last night, demanding that Stannis meet them at the ministry for an afternoon meeting. Ned had already sent a memo to Stannis, inviting him to a meeting to plan out how they would root out the wyverns from the ministry.

“ _Be sure you show up tomorrow_ ,” Robert had insisted, uncaring that Stannis was actively trying to shut the door in his brother’s face. It was nearly one in the morning. But Robert had planted a hand on Stannis’ door, and Stannis would never come close to Robert’s strength.

“ _Ned already sent me a memo, I’ll be there_ ,” Stannis shot back while he vainly tried to shut the door. “ _And be quiet when you head to your wing,_ ” Stannis added sharply. He didn’t need Robert’s stumbling to wake up Shireen while his big brother tried to find his designated section of the keep.

“ _We’re meeting in the morning_ ,” Robert continued, ignoring Stannis’ words. Stannis glared. Leave it to Robert to lecture others on punctuality, only to get the time wrong. He hadn’t bothered to correct Robert on the time. If Robert believed their meeting was scheduled for the morning, then he’d probably arrive in time to begin in the afternoon, as planned.

“ _Goodnight, Robert_.” Stannis finally muscled the door shut as Robert relaxed his arm and turned away in a daze.

Looking back, it appeared that Robert had tried to tell Stannis that it was another meeting scheduled for the morning. After all, Ned had been there, and Ned was nothing if not punctual. If it was scheduled for work hours, it was likely something official. But if was off-the-books, hence the lack of a memo, then it was probably also private. It clicked.

Ned had tried to poke around and ask Stannis about the prophecy candidates. And there were only two candidates Stannis knew of that Robert and Ned, specifically, would visit together.

“Davos,” Stannis snapped out. Davos snapped his head up to look at him. “I’m going to write down an address for you. I need you to go and see if there’s anything amiss there. Then come back here.” Davos nodded.

“Axell,” Stannis turned to his brother-in-law. “Change into muggle clothes and head to Whitehall. Make sure Selmy is still on duty with the PM. If he is, come right back. If not, stay with the PM and send word to me, and also here to Marya.” Axell and Marya nodded to each other and Axell took off, disappearing in the hearth with a flash of green.

Marya continued to wipe down the bar’s counter top as though impromptu war councils were a common occurrence in her pub. To be fair, they had indeed been relatively common during the war. Back then, a four-year-old Matthos had crawled under the tables as Stannis and Davos organized things as best they could. Today, the young adult was busy straightening the candles so they wouldn’t drip wax anywhere near the legally questionable floor plans.

Stannis wrote out the Mott’s residence in Flea Bottom and showed it to Davos.

“Can you find it quickly?” Davos squinted at it before nodding. He was born and raised in Flea Bottom. Whether he was truly from the King’s Landing or London side of the slum was a question Stannis had heard others like Axell ask on occasion. He’d simply smile, shrug and confirm he was born and raised Flea Bottom.

“Good. Go there and make sure things are calm. If they are, come back. Otherwise, signal me with this.” Stannis slid a one-time-use wand out of his pocket and tapped it with his own wand. It glowed silver for a moment before returning to its prior state. “It’ll send a patronus charm if you need me.” Davos swept it up and tucked it away, nodding. He patted Matthos and Marya in farewell and briskly set off.

“What about me?” Matthos asked.

“You and Imry will come with me to the ministry,” Stannis turned back to the floor plans. “You mention you saw the hand in the atrium?” He reconfirmed with Imry, who nodded. “Then we’ll start there. If this attack is as large as it seems, he’ll be outnumbered. If he’s smart, he’ll have moved by now. But we’ll start there and work our way to level two.” If Stark needed to retreat anywhere within the ministry, his own department would make the most sense.

“Let’s go.”

Entering the ministry was simple enough. There were masked attackers trying to sow as much chaos as possible near the King’s Landing entrance to the ministry. But they were a poor match against the likes of Hogwarts-trained magic practitioners like Imry Florent or Stannis Baratheon.

Even Matthos, whose dueling skills left much to be desired, was holding his own. For a while, everyone thought Matthos might turn out to be a squib like his father, but it turned out not. He hadn’t had the magical potency to attend Hogwarts, but Stannis had ensured magical tutors had been available to Matthos and his younger brothers. Some of the younger ones showed some promise, if only it were properly developed.

Together, they stunned the masked attackers and Stannis took an extra moment to unmask one of them. He didn’t recognize them – but looking critically at the mask, he realized it was styled after a wyvern’s skull. Less fearsome than a full dragon, but intimidating, nonetheless. And based on the state of panic that had set in, it was clear that the loyalist mascot was a fitting one – they couldn’t breathe fire, but they were still competent arsonists.

Inside the ministry, the atrium had seemed, at first, to be fairly orderly. A large crowd had assembled at the far end, near the fountains.

But as Stannis’ team entered, stunning and blasting at the attackers, any order broke and people scattered. Several people rushed the wyverns that surrounded them and made to dash past.

Panicked ministry officials, many of them distinctly missing their wands, were fleeing towards any fireplace or exit they could.

There was a gaping hole above the visitors’ entrance, and rubble spilled everywhere with a clear view to muggle London. Most were simply climbing the wreckage and disappearing into the muggle streets where sirens and other sounds were growing. Several were trying to cram themselves into the visitors’ entrance, even though the telephone booth could only fit two or three thin people at most and was clearly out of order.

Together, the three advanced down the atrium, taking down several of the insurrectionists as they went. Imry managed to wing one of them and the wyvern’s robe pocket split, scattering several fist-fulls of wands in the process. Several people who had been cowering on the floor or fleeing made a beeline to scrabble through the wands, hoping to find theirs. After a moment, they gave up, picked one at random and began the task of trying to take the ministry back.

The three drew closer to the fountains and Stannis came upon a distinctive set of robes.

Black with deep golden trim. Black, wild hair, just as Stannis’ had been, before he had become prematurely bald.

“ _Protego! Bombarda!_ ” Stannis operated on instinct. Once the last wyvern was down, he turned back but was unable to keep looking at the man in the face. Stannis dug his knuckles into the inner corners of his eyes to block it out.

Were he and Shireen to be the last Baratheons? He supposed the man at his feet had seen to it there was no true shortage of relations, but it wasn’t the same. Edric Storm knew only a life in France. The rest were scattered far and had no concept of Storm’s End.

They had only stopped by the Black Betha for a few minutes – no more than ten minutes at most – but he was too late.

Realistically, he knew even the ten minutes’ difference wouldn’t have done him any good. Robert had been dead longer than that. Stannis had simply been too late.

Still, Stannis was angry. He was furious. And he looked up to find that his moment of recognizing Robert’s body had taken long enough. The wyverns were scattering. Had started to flee the moment Stannis arrived. But while they ran from him and his team, they continued to sow chaos in the ministry and in the streets of King’s Landing, judging by the sounds coming from the entrance.

As Stannis looked up, he caught sight of a set of grey robes. Well, the hems were still grey. The rest was all wrong. Splattered, and soaked a dark red at the shoulders.

It was a gruesome sight. Stannis normally prided himself in being able to stomach quite a lot. But this was not normal. This was brutal, medieval.

Ned Stark’s head had rolled a few times, and had come to rest on its left cheek. The top of his head leaned against the base of the fountain. The redness was startling. It spread out across the floor and reached the fountain, seeping into Stark’s hair and clinging to the sides of the fountain. Stannis idly wondered whether he might have lived some fractional second longer if enough of his own blood had managed to flow back into his head.

It didn’t matter, now. Dull bits of grey peeked out from heavy lids.

“Jysus,” Imry said under his breath. He had abandoned chasing wyverns deeper into the bowels of the ministry in favor of gawking at the sight. To be fair, that was exactly what Stannis and several other shell-shocked people were doing.

They’d look at Robert, who they believed couldn’t be killed. They’d switch to look at Stark, who they couldn’t believe had been killed so horribly.

“Sir,” Matthos’ voice broke the moment. “Come look at this.” He gingerly knelt near Stark’s feet, where an impossibly large, though somewhat abused, scroll lay. It was partially unraveled, and it looked as though it had been stabbed through with some kind of blade. As Stannis approached, his stomach dropped.

The Childrens’ Scroll.

Before, the names of all the magical children born in Westeros had shone clearly. Now, it was noticeably blank. Black ink tinged some of the edges of the parchment, where it seemed as though it had been wicked out. The result of some unnatural force.

What in the _Hells?_

Stannis struggled to comprehend that such a thing was even possible.

“What is this, do you reckon?” Matthos asked. The summer child, he had no idea just what he was looking at. As far as he knew, he was looking at a curious clue.

Stannis felt a new sense of urgency take over. With a final glance to the butchery at his feet, he turned to Imry, Matthos, and a few other witches and wizards who had somehow found the courage to stay. Perhaps they simply hadn’t thought to leave. Well, they all answered to him, now.

“The Minister is dead,” Stannis announced superfluously. “The next in line for minister is the senior undersecretary. Until Mace Tyrell can be confirmed as alive, the Hand is in command. The next in line after the Hand,” he knew he was a cold bastard, but he wasn’t crude enough to make people keep looking at Stark’s remains. They’d never been close, but Stannis had respected him. And there weren’t many who Stannis respected.

“I am Acting-Hand until further notice. You,” Stannis began pointing at people who appeared steadier. “You, you and you. Stay here. Make sure the atrium remains locked down. Anyone you do not recognize, you confirm their identity. Aurors, Hit-Wizards and members of the Deparment of Magical Law Enforcement are to report in at Level Two. Anyone with the Department of Magical Catastrophes, is to report to Level Two.

“No one leaves. Anyone trying to leave will proceed to the antechambers and conference rooms for the Wizengamot – they’ll be empty. You and you. Head to the Wizengamot – if the conference rooms aren’t empty, keep everyone there. No one leaves the ministry.”

“You,” he pointed to Imry. “Secure the visitors’ entrance. Ward it off from muggles. Once you’ve done that, start a sweep into muggle London. If any insurrectionists are causing havoc, send me a patronus and stop them. You,” he pointed to Matthos. “Go with him. Stay together. Go.”

Everything became a blur.

The battle had spilled out into the streets of London. The Ministry of Magic was a mess. Stannis ignored a persistent ache. He was organizing the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when the muggle PM’s office painting found Stannis and told him the muggle PM was demanding to speak with Ned Stark or Robert Barathon, ideally both. An uncomfortable silence settled while everyone held their breath to see what message Stannis would send with the painting. The aurors, hit wizards and other officials who had collected on Level Two were not so subtle in trying to pretend they weren’t listening in.

To Yahn Prestyn’s credit, he was still focused on conjuring a sheet with which to cover Jon Colyns’ body. He went ahead and conjured what basically amounted to a box to set over it – it was becoming a trip hazard, stepping around the bodies that littered the floor. Yet they had to work around them. Their work was just beginning.

“Is Selmy still with him?” Stannis asked instead.

“No,” came the exact answer Stannis didn’t want to hear. “He received a memo and left some time ago.” Stannis froze for a second.

“Then who is with the prime minister now?”

“Jaime Lannister,” came the bewildering answer. Stannis didn’t know what to do with that one. “He was arguing with some man with giant ears – says you sent him.” Well, at least one thing was going right.

“And the prime minister is secure?” Stannis questioned the painting again. The impressionistic man bobbed his head, exaggerating the blurred effect of his short brushstrokes.

“Yes. They were arguing over who will stay, and who will come here to the ministry. I said I’d go, since I’d be useless at protecting him, you see.”

“Tell the prime minister someone will be along as soon as possible. Then tell Lannister and Florent they are both to stay with the prime minister until _I specifically_ release them. No one else. Do you understand?” The painting’s face blurred as he nodded.

“Should I tell him that it’ll be you, who will see him? He’s the type who will want to know, you see.” Stannis could feel the vein in his forehead start to pop out.

“Tell him,” Stannis ground out. “That _someone_ will be with him as soon as possible. Use those words.”

“But-”

“Repeat it back to me,” Stannis snapped. For the love of the Gods, how was a painting monopolizing his time right now?

“ ‘Someone will be with him as soon as possible,’ ” the painting mumbled back.

“Good. You’re dismissed,” Stannis didn’t wait to see the drooping man retreat into the side of the frame. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Xanner Gargalen, a famed auror, huff and retake his place in the center of his frame. Ser Gargalen, whose exploits earned him a knighthood some 200 years ago, clearly thought he had been generous to give the impressionistic messenger center-frame. Ser Gargalen resumed his post and again resembled the ideals of the neoclassical art movement.

The grind continued on. And on.

The battle had spilled out into the streets of London. Imry Florent sent him a patronus. The silvery bird flitted to him and announced that the insurrection was not confined to the Ministry of Magic, but to London’s places of government, as well. He requested as much help as possible to protect Whitehall, among other locations, and even more to pursue those causing havoc in the muggle streets.

It was a new kind of mess. Several witches and wizards had failed to account for vehicular traffic – the contraptions had hit them and injured them quite badly…

Which bought new problems when it was discovered that St Mungo’s was overrun. Yet again, Stannis had to wrangle exhausted aurors and hit wizards and send them right back out to lock down St Mungo’s until further notice.

There were arguments – inane bickering that Stannis couldn’t stand, yet he was the go-to person where people brought their disagreements. “We need the Department of Magical Catastrophes to issue stores about a catastrophic gas line explosion the London news!” One would say. “No, they’d never believe that,” another would argue. “We need to maintain silence on everything until we’ve gotten a handle on everything!”

And then there was the matter of how to conduct the early stage of the investigation, even as fires were being literally put out. “We need to hit every wyvern stronghold we know, root them out!” Someone declared to Stannis. “No, we don’t know who is responsible yet. It could be anyone and we shouldn’t waste time going on a false trail.” Came the counter arguments.

Indeed, the wyvern mask he had pulled from one of the attackers was fairly clear. Was it a bit of lazy theater? Or was it as straight forward as wyverns digging out their favorite attire after years underground?

The impressionist painting found him again. Again, the muggle Prime Minister was demanding to speak to Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. Again, Stannis dictated the short message that _someone_ would be with him as soon as possible.

Davos returned to the ministry. Despite the urgency, Stannis took the time to take Davos aside and ward off an office to prevent eavesdroppers. The Mott’s residence was as quiet as it could be, given the circumstances. There was no sign of a disturbance. Just an aging couple with a young child. Watching the telly, mostly.

The streets of London were out of hand, Davos continued. There were helicopters, now, and even Stannis had to admit that it was a concern. Magic had been used in front of, and on, muggles. In broad daylight, no less. Imry was obliviating as many people as he could, only to have some new example of magic erupt after he rounded the corner. Healers would need to be dispatched to muggle hospitals to do what they could for magical injuries.

The fighting was largely over, the wyverns dispersed. Some had been captured or killed. But Stannis couldn’t rest. Stepping into muggle London, he saw the mess first hand. Police were everywhere, sirens blaring on cars going every which way. Those giant – helee-kopters? – hovered in the skies, sweeping this way and that. Smoke rose into the sky. Tired ministry officials were trickling back. Stannis dispatched a ragged Matthos and several others to turn right around and find any straggling magic folk who had yet to hide from the muggles.

As if this could be fixed.

Returning to the ministry, Stannis had to pass, yet again, the fountain in the atrium. Robert had been covered over. Covering Stark was almost futile, so he had been screened off. The scroll sat just outside the screen, rumpled, but intact.

Again, Stannis’ fatigue was driven off by a fresh sense of urgency. The Promised One.

Davos had confirmed that Barra Welsh’s location was, so far, secure. But the others. Stannis hadn’t even spared a thought for the others. And if the early rumors were true, Robert and Ned had gone to great lengths to protect them. Stannis had turned to Davos then, and ordered him to Storm’s End. He knew Davos had felt torn. But he was nothing if not dutiful, and protecting Shireen was precisely what Davos would do, squib or no.

“Mr. Baratheon,” the impressionistic painting called to him. Stannis noted that at least he sounded apologetic. “Prime Minister Buckland has again requested that I seek out Robert Baratheon or Ned Stark-”

“Tell him,” Stannis interrupted him. “That someone should be there by,” he checked his watch. “This evening.” It was vague to say ‘evening,’ but it was the best Stannis could offer. He rolled his head side to side, trying to stretch his neck. Then, he was off again.

Apparating to the school gates, Stannis looked up to the castle grounds. He wasn’t sentimental, but even he had to admit Hogwarts had a timeless quality. In many ways, it had been more of a home to him than Storm’s End ever was.

The gates were closed and locked as he approached. But it seemed Headmaster Lannister was expecting him, because Yoren was waiting inside the gates. He conducted the gates to open, and closed them after Stannis had entered. Stannis appreciated that Yoren didn’t feel the need to pester him with questions or yammer on about useless things. The school was relatively quiet – students were mostly studying for their exams or else relaxing on the weekend.

Tywin Lannister was sat at his desk, writing. Aside from briefly looking up to see Stannis’ arrival, he made no move to indicate that they were about to have a conversation. Stannis saw that Tyrion and Loras were already there, waiting in chairs off to the side. Those two never missed an opportunity to get the inside scoop. Stannis determinedly looked away from the pair and glared at the top of Tywin’s head.

Tywin scribbled away for another minute or so. Stannis waited, grinding his teeth. Because Stannis was merely dropping by for a social visit. It wasn’t as though time was of the essence.

In truth, Tywin Lannister only continued to write long enough to finish whatever paragraph he had been working on, and then he briskly set the quill down and stood. He came around the desk to stand face-to-face with his former pupil. He gestured to a pair of armchairs near a window.

“How bad is it?” Tywin sat down. Stannis was suddenly that much more aware of how tired he was, but he wasn’t through yet. He remained standing, and compromised by leaning at the back of the chair. He’d sit and rest when the day was done.

“Sir,” Stannis had not yet been able to break the habit of addressing Headmaster Lannister with deference. “ ‘Bad’ doesn’t begin to cover it. But first thing’s first. What of the candidates? Are they all accounted for? Where are they?”

“They are,” Loras piped up. He sounded infuriatingly casual about the whole affair. It was one of the attributes that so irked him when Renly and Loras would go gallivanting together. Renly had been carefree so much of the time already, but Loras had seemed to teach Renly to be even more careless.

Stannis supposed he hadn’t minded so much early on, when the pair were just students. Let them be carefree and stupid, Stannis had thought at the time. The war had somewhat passed them over; perhaps they deserved to remain young and innocent. But Stannis blamed Loras for stunting Renly’s maturity. He hadn’t learned to view things with the gravity they required, hadn’t learned to view things as they were.

As far as Stannis was concerned these days, Loras was the reason Renly had been vulnerable to corruption. Though even Stannis had to admit that Loras held none of the wyvern’s views, the Tyrells had undeniably supported the loyalist coalition.

“ _We needed to maintain order,_ ” the insufferable Mace Tyrell had defended at the war’s end. By spending so much time with Loras, Renly had inevitably fraternized with the very people who had propped up the Targaryens, no matter their stated reasons. They had been the fleas, and Renly the dog. It had led to his ruin.

Again, Stannis noted that he was now the last of them. For the others were dead. As far as Stannis was concerned, both of his brothers had been dead for some time, now.

“Waters?” Stannis only bothered to look at Tywin.

“He was brought back to school earlier today,” Tywin responded. “Yoren picked him up soon after the event began.” The event. That was certainly one way to refer to the fiasco that was today.

“Brought back from where?” Stannis pressed, though he already knew the answer.

“St Mungo’s,” Tywin said, unruffled. “Yoren has been taking him to St Mungo’s every so often.” Later, Stannis was going discover some way to make a deal with the Red God. He was going to find a way to speak to the dead. If only to tell Ned Stark that he had told him so.

Ned Stark was perhaps the most honorable and stalwart man known to Westeros. Stannis could appreciate another man who understood duty and responsibility. But Ned’s sentimentality had clearly gotten in the way of pragmatism, and it had brought unnecessary risk to the most likely Promised candidate. All for a few visits with a woman who was as dead has Robert and Renly.

“And Stone?” Stannis moved on.

“Perfectly safe and sound,” Tywin said. He continued before Stannis could press further. “And the others are also here and accounted for as well.”

“Are any of the students aware of what’s occurred, yet?” Stannis grimaced when he saw Tyrion give a little smirk.

“The Prophet is rather fond of sending several copies to students,” Loras filled in. “The Evening Prophet is due to arrive sometime soon. They’ll know whatever it says soon enough. And that’s not including the ones with contacts in the ministry.” Of course. As the preeminent school of magic in Westeros, many officials sent their children to Hogwarts. Part of Stannis was surprised that he wasn’t beaten here by several owls. Then again, sitting down to write a note to one’s children was hardly a priority when bodies were literally dropping and heads rolling.

Stannis squeezed the back of the armchair in an attempt to build his energy. He needed to be going.

“Rumor has it that things are more dire than even the minister and hand’s assassinations,” Tyrion broke in. Tyrion Lannister was a wily one, but fishing for news and gossip was one way in which he was predictable.

“Things are indeed dire,” Stannis sniffed and made to turn away.

“The Scroll?” Tywin asked directly. At least he didn’t bother to employ any of Tyrion’s tiresome displays of social finagling. Such tactics were better left to a Tyrell.

“The investigation is ongoing,” Stannis said, throwing a glare into the middle ground between Tyrion and Loras – he didn’t want them there if he was to divulge anything, and he’d be damned if he looked Loras’ way if he could help it.

“Get out,” Tywin said. There was a beat of silence in which Stannis indulgently took satisfaction. Loras stood up, and Tyrion followed suit, though reluctantly. The door had latched behind them and the stone stairs could be heard grinding as it carried the two teachers down. Tywin continued to stare Stannis down, and Stannis felt a pull of annoyance. He might be his former professor, but dammit Stannis was a high-ranking ministry official. Still, Tywin needed to know, if he was to care for the candidates’ safety.

“The Children’s Scroll is destroyed.” Stannis said. “The wyverns left it by Ned Stark’s and Robert’s bodies with a hole in it.”

“Can it be read?”

“I’ve ordered that no one touch it for now. It’s been cordoned off. From a visual inspection, it appears blank. I checked the Scroll Room. The ink bled out and there’s a small lake of it in the lower level.”

“How was it destroyed?” Tywin asked.

“So far, I haven’t found anyone who witnessed it,” Stannis admitted. “But I’ve heard a rumor, but nothing more. A couple of people say it was Ned Stark. I haven’t been able to substantiate it beyond someone saying what someone else said.”

“Mr. Stark was adequate enough with magic,” Tywin waved his hand dismissively. “But he wasn’t at the scale of his brother Brandon, or Robert, as far as power. He couldn’t have destroyed it by himself. I doubt even I could have destroyed it by myself. It would be a tall order even if I had help.” He sat in furrowed thought for a moment before looking up again.

“Do you know whether Stark destroyed it before anyone could read it?”

“Unconfirmed. But if so, then they would have needed to gain access to the Scroll before Stark. Jon Colyns was found dead, so it’s technically possible they could have. But so far, indications are that Stark was first to gain entry. Apparently wyverns had to break into the room because he had barricaded himself inside. It’s how they captured him.”

“So he seemingly destroyed the only method of learning every possible name, short of gaining the student lists from all the schools in Westeros,” Tywin mused. “It seems as though they’ll have to put in the work themselves to find the candidates. And that doesn’t account for all the kids who are taught at home, or through traveling teachers.”

 _Or not at all_ , Stannis thought to himself. Both he and Tywin came from some of the wealthiest families in all of Westeros. Families like theirs agonized on where to send their children to school, or whether they would hire private instructors. But it was a decision that traditionally factored in things like status or prestige rather than cost or quality.

Through Davos, Stannis had learned that regular Westerosi families worried over more practical matters. Davos and Marya had worried Matthos would be a squib like him. Even once he proved to be magical, they worried he wouldn’t attain any magical proficiency beyond Marya’s stunted abilities.

To avoid the risk of obscuruses, traveling instructors were a ministry-subsidized position. They were meant to develop the magical abilities of witches and wizards past the point of becoming destructive, uncontrolled magic incarnate. Once that was achieved, one had to have funds and connections in order to obtain a quality wand or quality instruction.

Matthos had done well with the tutors Stannis’ money had supplied. But there were tens of thousands more Matthoses without the connections to climb higher. Tywin broke Stanis’ train of thought when he said:

“And then there’s the Trace…” Indeed. Stannis didn’t even want to think about what all this would mean.

“Well, Mr. Stark made himself useful before he died, in one regard at least.” He sat down and picked up his quill. “I imagine you still have a great many things on your plate.” Stannis nodded his head at the dismissal. He left the headmaster, who was again scribbling away as though nothing of great import had happened.

“Any chance you’ll give us a hint?” Tyrion asked as Stannis stepped into the corridor outside the headmaster’s office.

“Ask the headmaster,” Stannis growled. He turned away to leave and came face-to-face with the single person he least wanted to see that day.

“I’ll walk you out,” Loras said, falling into step. Unfortunately for Stannis, Loras was a wonderful athlete, and not nearly as tired as Stannis, so there was no hope of outpacing him. The blissful silence lasted only one hallway.

“I-”

“Don’t.” Stannis ground out. “Whatever you have to say, don’t.”

To his relief, Loras fell back and allowed Stannis to exit through the front doors without another word.

* * *

Stannis was drained by the time he’d gone to the ministry. He’d found Hector Swann and Andrew Estermont there. Swann was a consummate professional and Stannis knew he was about as steady as they come. But Swann looked as though he was running as ragged as Stannis felt. While Estermont was one of the greener aurors, only two years out of auror training, he was also the least exhausted. And Stannis trusted him, which was more than he could say for many in the ministry at the moment.

“I’ve brought your relief,” Stannis said when the three of them arrived to Downing Street. “Where’s Selmy? Where did he go?” But all he received were shaking heads.

“He received a sealed ministry memo. He read it and since I was here, he just left.” Stannis didn’t have the time just then, but he had some very pointed questions for Jaime Lannister as to why he had seemingly assigned himself to the muggle PM today, of all days.

“What’s been happening?” Jaime Lannister asked without skipping a beat. “The muggles here’ve been saying it’s either terrorists, or else some kind of system-wide failure.”

“Head home, both of you,” Stannis ignored Jaime’s question. Perhaps it really was true. Perhaps he really was the stupidest Lannister. How he could be related to the likes of Tywin and Tyrion just went to show how varied family relations could be. Stannis didn’t wait for either of them to answer and proceeded to enter Terrence Buckland’s office.

Buckland was up and pacing the room as the television reported the news. Talking heads listed the number of confirmed dead and injured while scenes of chaos played. The PM was tapping the remote into his palm while he shifted his weight and stared out his window. He turned around when Stannis came in and silenced the television with the remote.

“Who are you? And what in the _Seven Hells_ is going on? Where’s Stark? I want to speak to him and I want Robert Baratheon to show up.” Stannis couldn’t blame him for the flood of questions.

“My name is Stannis Baratheon. I’m the Acting Hand.” It seemed Buckland was quick on the uptake because he sagged until he was seated in a nearby chair.

“So it’s true, then? All this chaos is from your world?” Stannis nodded grimly.

“Mr. Stark said he’d be going to Flea Bottom,” Buckland said. “But all the reports I’ve received show incidents in this area, in central London, near Whitehall and near the houses of parliament. I haven’t had any reports of issues in Flea Bottom.”

“That’s because they never made it to Flea Bottom,” Stannis said. “They were supposed to meet at the Ministry of Magic, and go to Flea Bottom together. But they were ambushed and killed.” Buckland went quiet for a bit while he glanced back at the muted television screen.

“Robert Baratheon was your older brother, wasn’t he?” Stannis recognized the familiar habit people had of flicking their eyes up to his hair and comparing eye color. He nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Buckland seemed sincere, so he nodded again and sat down at the prime minister’s offer.

“Jon Arryn sat just there not so long ago,” Terrence said, gesturing to the chair in which Stannis sat. “He was my introduction to your world. He told me of the different regions and their kings, and of the Targaryens. He explained how your father and King Aerys had been good friends. It must be difficult, to lose friends to people who might have been friends.”

“My father had died several years before Aerys went fully mad,” Stannis said dully. “He was spared from having to watch Aerys turn into what he did. He and Aerys were more than just friends. They grew up together. Technically, they were family. Cousins. My father’s mother, Rhaelle, was a Targaryen. Aerys and my father were practically raised together.” He saw Terrence’s face. “It’s not something my brothers or I ever brought up much after the war. And it’s not the sort of thing other people mention around us.”

“Ned Stark also sat just there yesterday evening,” Terrence said. It appeared he had dispensed with the formalities of condolences and small talk. He was certainly adept at swinging conversation without seeming too obvious about it. “He told me of a murdered Septon and a prophecy, and then he said the people who might kill him were likely to want to keep him around. Now you say he’s dead. What am I to think?”

“Ned Stark and my brother were fools.” Stannis said bluntly. “They and Jon Arryn went poking around, which the wyverns might have been happy with, except they weren’t about to go parading the prophecy candidates around in public, were they?

“They realized that each candidate Arryn and Stark found would be squirreled away and placed out of reach. Which made them liabilities rather than opportunities.” Stannis’ feet were feeling much better, and he realized just how much he had been up and about today.

“Which is likely the reason for today.” Terrence leaned forward slightly. “There was an attack on the ministry this morning. It spilled over into the streets of King’s Landing and London. At first, I hoped that it might have been just a riot or some kind of demonstration. Sometimes old loyalists will try to rally their supporters, though doing it at the ministry would be a first.

“When we found my brother and Ned Stark’s bodies, we realized it was at a larger scale than we thought possible. And then there was the Scroll.”

Stannis spent some time outlining the Children’s Scroll and its importance as a single source to learn the names of all the magical children in Westeros. He also explained its accompanying role as the host of the Trace, which might have led to the children themselves. He told how the Scroll was destroyed, its magic gone, and how it appeared Ned Stark had been the one to do it.

“So the Scroll is ‘dead,’ you say?” Terrence said. “So the prophecy candidates are safe, now?”

“Safety is never guaranteed,” Stannis said. “But if anyone tries to hunt them down, they’ll have to do it on their own.”

“But doesn’t that make it harder for you to find them and protect them, too?” Terrence asked.

“Well, we have the advantage of a head start,” Stannis responded. “But, yes. It puts everyone on equal footing as far as finding new ones, or tracking them down. It’ll likely slow everyone down, both them and us. And after today’s events, many families may try to go to ground, lest their children be targeted, or even be associated with others who might be.”

The muggle PM nodded along for a bit before looking back up at him.

“Who’s ‘we?’ ”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep referencing ‘we’ and ‘us.’ Versus ‘them.’ So who is part of the ‘us’ when everyone I’ve met who seems to align with you is dead?” Terrence Buckland was showing his brass, and Stannis used all of his restraint to keep from heaving a sigh of annoyance. In this regard, Jon Arryn was probably best suited to be Hand. He was a lecturing professor by training, after all.

For a moment, Stannis wished to summon his old textbook on the subject. He fantasized handing it over, pointing out the relevant chapters and making his way home and to bed.

“I suppose Jon Arryn has explained to you that the ‘Isles’ are closer to a small continent, yes? Good. The opinions and views of how Westeros and Britain should relate to one another are as varied as the regions of Westeros themselves.

“There are, broadly speaking, four major political beliefs on the subject of Westeros’ place and role in the British Isles. Technically, it all really boils down to a question: should the Targaryens have warded off the magical world from the muggle one? It’s a question that brings a range of answers, depending on who you ask. If you ask a Westerosi what they think, the answer could broadly indicate which one of the four groups they identify with.”

And so Stannis launched into a recitation of the different opinions, ‘parties,’ as PM Buckland might understand them, though they were not codified political parties, as such.

There were the Whitecloaks, the party that has held power since the war ended and the Targaryens overthrown. They upheld the Statute of Secrecy with the utmost care, and enforced it stringently.

Whether the worlds should have ever been segregated was a moot point to a whitecloak; they had been, and the muggle world had since forgotten them. Therefore, maintaining stability was the priority. It did no one any good to rake everything up and risk destabilizing both worlds.

The Greyjoy family had gone the other direction so much so, that their answer to the question had resulted in their philosophy being named after them. Someone who subscribed to the ideas of Balon Greyjoy, and who called themselves a greyjoy, wanted to return to a time where wizarding folk didn’t have to hide from muggles.

The greyjoys had attempted their own rebellion soon after Robert’s Rebellion. They had tried to reveal themselves to the muggle world. But since Balon’s goals had included a return to Medieval opinions on returning to a stricter social class system, with muggles and muggle-borns at the bottom, there had been immense push-back. Medieval times brought back memories of witch burnings, of a more brutal time where all but a few were limited and devalued and held down in life.

There were the Dornish, a party that had gained traction in recent years due to Oberyn Martell and several others. Much of Dorne’s population were beginning to support it, too. Unlike the whitecloaks, dornish wanted the muggle and magical worlds to acknowledge each other. Unlike the greyjoys, they didn’t want to subjugate the muggle world, or ‘return’ to any set of values or way of life.

But neither did the dornish seem to have a specific set of goals, just a nebulous feeling of wanting to live in harmony. The lack of a clear message was likely what held them back from becoming more popular. Essentially, they were a less-organized, more modern version of what the greyjoys wanted.

Finally, there were the wyverns. Traditionally loyalists, though it had become increasingly clear that some of them couldn’t give a toss about Targaryens. The original wyvern platform was loyalty to the Dragon Lord and the Targaryen rule. Now, however, it seemed as though they had broadened their ranks to include those who disagreed with Targaryen rule, but saw them as a means to an end.

Like the dornish and greyjoys, they wanted to stop hiding from the muggle world. But they were distinguished from the other two in that they specifically believe muggles to be inferior to magical folk. Realistically, such sentiments have always existed in Westerosi society. But once the Targaryens began to hold court in a newly segregated Westeros, it had come to be seen as impolite or uncouth to discuss the muggle world beyond acknowledging that it existed.

Over the last few generations, it became more common to wonder and talk about the muggle world. Queen Aella had popularized discussing the muggle world in court, breaking tradition. She had apparently taken muggle studies while at school and found the subject to be fascinating. She went as far as to disguise herself as a muggle and live amongst them for a time, and returned with stories of wondrous ways of life. Their rate of maternal mortality was brought astonishingly low compared to before. They had harnessed the power of electricity and made fantastic advances in science and medicine to overcome a lack of magic.

Stories of a prospering muggle world had led to some amount of unrest. How could uncouth, savages who burned suspected witches have built so much wealth? If every muggle child was expected to learn to read and write, why were there Westerosi children who never got to learn magic beyond what was necessary to prevent an obscurus? It was these dormant sentiments that modern-day wyverns were now using to attract new recruits.

Stannis went on to explain that each of these schools of thought has had – still has – backing from different influential people and families.

The whitecloaks were primarily backed by the Baratheons, Arryns and Starks after the war. It was an odd turn of events, since it was the Targaryens who had started the policy to begin with. But everything had been so tenuous in those early days, and maintaining the status quo with regard to the Statute of Secrecy seemed like the wise thing to do.

The wyverns, before today, had been assumed to be the group with the least power since the war. After today, that might not be the case anymore.

Stannis skipped over the complicated dynamics of how the different levels of power shifted between the groups. Poor Mr. Buckland wouldn’t know who the Freys were, and wouldn’t care that many of them subscribed to the greyjoy philosophy. He likely wouldn’t care that most Martells, several Tyrells and even some Tullys leaned to the dornish end of the spectrum. He would have no context for why such a combination of like-mindedness would feel strained between a set of families that had no historical love for one another.

It was best to stick with the most pressing matter.

Stannis needed to get to the point. The point that had the department of magical catastrophes wringing their hands and looking to Stannis with trepidation. The very point that had Stannis himself lamenting that it was not possible to build a time turner large enough to encompass an entire city.

“Time is of the essence now,” Stannis said. “I’m afraid that you will need to shut down your internet to keep this contained. Possibly declare a curfew. If you need a specific person or terrorist to blame, my department can provide one, or even several, for you-”

“No.” Stannis was taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

“No.” Buckland said again. They stared at each other for a beat. “Do you not see this?” Buckland waved a hand to the television, the muted screen was still rolling clips from the day’s disaster.

“This,” Buckland explained as though Stannis were a slow child. “Is the BBC.” He used his remote to change the channel. “This is ABC.”

Stannis was aware that televisions were used to display the news, but he was growing increasingly confused as to why they were all named after sequences of letters.

“This,” Buckland continued. “Is Al Jazeera. I could go on and on.” He clicked the remote several times more, speeding through several more channels. “The events of today go beyond London. They go beyond the UK. They’re being discussed and shared all over the world. I’ve had our allies reaching out to us, offering to reposition satellites in the event that it might help us. And we’ve already had communications from several adversaries and organizations telling us it wasn’t them.” He set his remote down on a side table.

“So unless you’ve got some magical method of taking back today’s events and starting over, there’s no way I can patch this up for you. You could give me a boatload of ‘ _people who did it_ ’ and it still wouldn’t explain the clips going viral over the internet right now.

“If infrastructure wasn’t destroyed and damaged, this could be maybe – **maybe** – explained as a series of freak accidents. If people weren’t dead, I could _hypothetically_ explain it away as the collision of a flash mob or live-art performance combined with gas explosions. Not that anyone with eyes and a brain cell would believe it, mind you.

“You’re in too deep for that. There are clips, from multiple angles, from different sources, of one of your wizards shooting some kind of light at a _Londoner_ , and that person flying backwards. There’s a body. So far, their identity has yet to be released because their next of kin is still being informed. But their identity _will be_ released. And that’s just one person. There are others.

“We’ve got several more in the hospital with strange conditions our doctors don’t know how to treat. Some of _them_ have died. Others have somehow gained hooves instead of feet. Those plane crashes during the last war had a higher body count, but today was live-streamed to the internet. Don’t you know what that means? Do you know what the internet is?”

Stannis didn’t know what the PM meant, and he rankled at being talked down to. He _had_ , as a matter of fact, taken muggle studies while at Hogwarts. And he had learned that, just a few years before his class, muggles had built the world wide web.

“The internet,” Stannis said as calmly as he could. “Is a series of tubes through which information travels. So I’m asking you to shut it down until we can get a handle on it.”

There were several moments of silence.

Terrence laughed.

Stannis couldn’t quite figure out what was so funny, but he had somehow brought the muggle PM to shaking fits of laughter. Stannis was certain his face showed short-tempered annoyance, and the man across from him managed to look up at him. Seeing his face, the PM burst into a new round of laughter. Wiping his eyes, he eventually calmed down.

“I shudder to think just what else you people learn about the muggle world,” Terrence said, still dabbing at his eye. “Do you also think we toss young maidens off of cliffs to bring in a better harvest?” His chuckles died down when he saw just how amused Stannis was.

“I’m serious, though,” Terrence straightened up. “There’s got to be some way you can fix this from your end, because it simply can’t be done in a way that anyone would believe from my end.”

Stannis wasn’t daunted by much. But even he felt a heaviness settle in his stomach.

“I’m afraid,” Stannis began again. “That the whitecloaks have been dealt a heavy blow today. They’ve held power as far as holding positions in the ministry. But ever since the war, the idea has largely been supported by the Baratheons, Lannisters, the Arryns and the Starks.

"Jon Arryn, my brother and Ned Stark are all dead now. I’m the last adult Baratheon, Jon Arryn’s son and relatives are mixed on the matter – frankly, none of them hold any sort of office. The Lannisters are half-hearted in their support at best, and Ned’s younger brother has been missing for almost a year, now.

“Depending on just how many have died today, the whitecloaks are likely holding power in name only. The other three parties are likely to vie for power. The three parties differ in nuance between them for how to go about it, but all of them want the magical world to come out of hiding in some form or other. They wish for the muggle world to know about them.”

All the mirth Terrence had felt earlier was gone.

“What about the magical people in other parts of the world? What do they want? Aren’t there ramifications there?” Stannis felt a bitter smile bubble up.

“I’m afraid Westeros is somewhat of a loner. We trade with the rest of the world, that’s true enough. Essos – that’s Eurasia – is our main trade partner, and the Americas have become a popular travel destination. But the economies between magical worlds aren’t quite as interdependent as in your world.”

“But if you’re revealed here, that means the magical world will be revealed everywhere!”

“Does it? From what I understand, muggles in many other regions consider shamans and witch doctors to be quite ordinary. Crackpots or traditionalists, depending on how they view it.” Stannis shook his head.

“I’m not saying it’s not a big deal. Essos, Europe, especially, is likely to be furious about it. Not that they can complain, given that they’ve got their own movements to deal with. France in particular, they’ve got a group or two that are dead set on purging their muggleborns. But much of the rest of the magical world is better insulated against being revealed.

“But Westeros, the Magical Congress of the United States, a few others … they’ve fully hidden themselves and don’t have a significant population of muggles who would be relatively unfazed at magic. If you really can’t shut down the internet, take it back or cover up today …” He trailed off and they sat for a moment to process the gravity of things.

“So that’s it, then?” Terrence asked. Stannis felt the weight in his stomach twist. This was really it.

“My department is currently modifying memories and I’ve got healers making rounds at your hospitals to lift curses from people. We’re still operating as though the Statute of Secrecy is a viable law. But I’m afraid it isn’t a permanent solution.” Stannis rubbed his forehead.

“It’ll be a matter of time, now. The other three parties are likely planning on making moves to debut magic to your world. We’ll have to wait and see, and attempt to minimize the panic and damage.”

* * *

When Stannis had left Storm’s End that morning, he had still had a living brother. He had left home to head to Azkaban in a futile attempt to understand his brother. Or what was left of one. Storm’s End was now a relief and a sour thing. He hoped Professor Cressen had not yet sent Shireen to bed. If she was already asleep, perhaps she wouldn’t mind if he still poked his head into her room. He shook himself. She never minded that sort of thing.

“Stannis.”

Stannis whirled to face the voice, drawing his wand.

“Easy,” the voice hurried to calm him. From the shadows, Stannis saw a figure in rich robes step out, hands held in front with empty palms out.

“What are you doing here?” Stannis stowed his wand. Of course Loras wouldn’t simply leave him alone.

“I just wanted to say-”

“I don’t care.” Stannis talked over him. But Loras kept going.

“-that I’m sorry about your brother.”

“Which one?” He knew his voice had turned from cold to downright nasty, but he didn’t care.

“Both,” Loras persisted. “Robert was a complicated person, but he didn’t deserve to die today.” Stannis considered not responding, but he was sick of Loras presuming to know a damn thing about his brothers.

“You’re wrong.” Despite himself, he came to a stop on the path that led to the main doors of the keep. “Robert was about as uncomplicated as a person could be. He just covered it over by making a mess wherever he went, whatever he touched.” Loras wore an odd expression. Perhaps he hadn’t expected anything beyond a ‘fuck off,’ but he’d had a long day.

“I truly am sorry about your brothers. Both of them.” Loras sounded sincere. It was dark, but no matter how long Stannis stared at him, he could only see sincerity there. “I know you blame me for what happened, but-”

“You exposed him to the sort of people who were behind today's insurrection,” Stannis cut him off again, though less aggressively. “He was always malleable, you _knew_ that. You’re _damn right_ I blame you for what happened.”

“And you were never able to see that he grew up,” Loras shot back. “He stopped being a stupid kid when the Mad King blew up the realm, just like everyone else. But all you ever saw in him was a clown for a little brother. You never bothered to notice that he’d grown up.”

They continued walking, though Stannis couldn’t fathom why Loras would want to remain in his company. Surely, Loras wasn’t expecting to be let inside. He was surprised Loras had stood up to him. He was usually the sort to avoid confrontation, preferring to deflect tensity with a quip or a laugh. Like Renly. They made it to the doors and Stannis found he didn’t have the energy to make Loras go away. He stood aside to let Loras into the entrance hall.

“I never understood how he could have gone so wrong,” Stannis said. He surprised himself in speaking up. “I don’t just blame you,” Loras gave him a look of surprise. “I should have looked after him more. Robert looked after us in a basic way, after our parents. But he was useless at setting boundaries. Anything other than making sure our school supplies list was checked off, and he’d lose interest. I should have reined Renly in. Made sure…” He trailed off. As forward as ever, Loras invited himself to the parlor and poured them both a drink.

“I knew he was troubled, especially towards the end.” Loras spoke up. “But I never would have guessed that he’d do something like that. It was like a shadow with a face had taken over him. One moment, he’d be as light as ever. He really had grown up, you know,” Loras threw a look to Stannis.

“But then there would be moments when it was like he didn’t even see me. Like he was miles away, and just going through the motions to keep up appearances. He’d be talking to me, but it was like he was looking right through me, thinking about something else. I thought he was just becoming more ambitious or something, I had tried to convince him he could climb high, after all. I thought he was just afraid to tell me. I didn’t realize until later what he was plotting.”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” Stannis asked. Loras scoffed.

“ _You?_ Why would I go to _you?_ The person who always thought I was leading Renly to the dark side? Every time you looked at me, it was like you expected me to be performing blood magic or making sordid sacrifices.”

“Fine, why didn’t you go to Robert? Or Ned? Benjen, even? You were friends with Benjen.”

“For the same reason you never looked to Robert for help. He’d have tried to punch or hex the problem away.”

“And Benjen?”

“It wasn’t _about_ Benjen. It was about Renly. Benjen would have tried to help, but he’d have gone about it just like Ned would have – with all the delicacy of a nogtail being chased from a pigsty. I wasn’t going to drag anyone else into if I could help it.”

“So you doomed him instead?” It seemed Stannis had finally pushed Loras far enough.

“I didn’t see _you_ trying to connect with him,” Loras snapped. “I didn’t see you trying to check in on him. If you had, you might have noticed something beyond your own nose.

“ _I’m sorry_ that I didn’t stop him. The war was over. I thought we’d be able to-”

“To what? Sail off into the sunset together? I’m surprised at you. Isn’t your grandmother supposed to have passed on some great wisdom only known to her? I can’t believe you’d be so naive as to think the war’s end would mean sunshine and rainbows all throughout the land. You can _never_ let your guard down. You must _always_ assume the worst is yet to come-”

“You’re not the only one he betrayed!” Stannis stopped short, feeling as though he’d been smacked. Loras cleared his throat and lowered his voice. He carried on with more control:

“You’re not the only one who loved him. You’re not the only one who lost him. You’re not the only one who misses him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the HP universe, squibs seem to be a relatively rare occurrence. Filch is the only squib character I can remember off the top. In this universe, squibs are somewhat more common. Not super common, but most magic families will have one every so often.  
> Davos is a squib, and his wife Marya is technically a witch, but not a very powerful one. It’s probably why their families ended up in Flea Bottom. Powerful witches and wizards can and do come from Flea Bottom, but not as often – they likely get treated as the “deserving poor” kid who pulls themselves up by the bootstraps for being a magical prodigy.  
> Hopefully the PM’s talk wasn’t too dry.  
> Basically, I made up four generalized ideologies on how magic people might want to handle the muggle world. If you’re still confused, don’t worry. It basically boils down to:  
> Whitecloaks = Establishment. Targaryens separated the worlds and the Baratheons et al continued the policy. They don’t necessarily think the Statute of Secrecy is “right,” but they support upholding it now that it’s already the established way of things.  
> Dornish = Want Westeros to stop hiding and allow the two worlds to interact with one another. Technically, this already happens, per Hermione’s parents knowing about magic and keeping their daughter’s magic a secret, but the dornish would want her parents to be able to just say she’s a witch if they so chose.  
> Greyjoys = Want Westeros to stop hiding and allow the two worlds to interact with one another. They are distinguished from the dornish in that they want to return to the “old ways” of magical folk presiding over the muggle world.  
> Wyverns = Original wyverns want to return the Targaryens to the throne. Newer wyverns may/not want to reinstate Targaryens, but they want Westeros to stop hiding. They are distinguished from the dornish and greyjoys in that they specifically see the muggle world’s advancements, and Westeros’ stagnation, as a result of the muggle world holding them back. They see the Statute of Secrecy as a tool to suppress Westeros’ prosperity, and many are upset that government funds are spent educating muggleborns like Lommy at some of the best schools when Westerosi children don’t get the same funding. Not all, but a definite portion of wyverns just don’t like muggle(borns) and see them as inferior.  
> Still confused? Try not to worry. I’m trying to write this story so that you don’t have to do homework and memorize terms to enjoy it.


	15. A Man's Son May

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A confession prompts a confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little early because I’m posting the next chapter over the coming weekend. I promise it will have Gendry in it!

“Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes you might fail in the knowing of me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son: give me your blessing: truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man’s son may, but at the length truth will out.”

– Launcelot, The Merchant of Venice

* * *

Catelyn had previously not thought she would ever appreciate a summer snow. But that was before. Before the world had started a new upheaval, and started reshaping itself. Now, she loosened her cloak’s folds so as to let a bit of the cold air in. Some part of her hoped the cold might numb her. She needed to go in soon.

Professors Luwin and Mordane would be wondering after her. They were probably wondering why she had fled the castle in such haste although they would not ask. She just needed a moment with fresh air after what she had seen.

Catelyn had spent days walking to the bedroom, walking to the dining room, walking to the kitchens. She had spent days wandering the Great Keep, working her way ever closer to Ned’s office.

The closer she got, the faster she’d turn and find something else to do. She straightened the things on Sansa’s dresser. She made up Arya’s bed. She made rounds through all the rooms and cleaned and neatened and straightened and did it all again.

With nothing left that was unclean or untidy, she tore through the kitchens and restocked the pantry and storerooms. She rolled crusts and kneaded doughs. Baked pies and roasted feasts. She stocked the fridge with the girls’ favorites. She splurged and bought extra saffron, ready to be put towards lemon cakes.

The boys couldn’t eat it all. Professors Luwin and Mordane couldn’t, either. She invited Rodrick and Jory and several others to help themselves, as thanks for everything they had done to help. She’d even dragged Hodor in and coaxed him into helping finish it all off. After a time, it seemed even Hodor couldn’t continue eating at the rate that Catelyn was cooking.

So she had started all over again, wandering the halls and working her way closer to Ned’s office.

The Stark ancestral solar. Finally, she had gone in, only to see what he had left on his desk, prompting her to positively flee Ned’s office. She stood now, trying to breathe the frigid air.

Ned was a tidy person, and he preferred his desktop to be cleared of most objects unless he was actively working on something. Anything left on it showed its importance and prevalence on his mind. Cat had seen the little list he kept on the desk as she approached. Things he needed to do. Most of the items had little check marks next to them, denoting they had been dealt with in some fashion but not entirely; or else were crossed out, meaning they could be put out of mind.

Several items had to do with work and mostly had check marks, which meant he’d likely have to revisit them at some point. The unchecked ones seemed newer, and had to do with family. There were three or four personal items and Cat felt herself go numb at the first item, no cold needed:

‘ _Sansa: smart_ ’

Cat wished she could claim to be confused over what it meant. But its meaning was all too clear. How many times had Sansa disappeared into the library to study more, to study harder? It seemed as though she had begun to hear any complimentary praise for her siblings’ work as commentary for her own academic failures. Cat knew Sansa wasn’t trying to best her siblings in order to be superior to them, but it was as though Sansa thought that, in order to equal them, she had to beat them.

Sansa used to be so much more relaxed about learning. She had taken pleasure in some areas and seen others as a chore. But it seemed she had grown to see it all as an obstacle, a thing she had to overcome, in order to achieve – what? Not respect, surely. As far as she knew, none of the children would have ever called Sansa stupid – well they wouldn’t have meant it, anyway.

Cat thought back and realized that it had started seeping in right around the time when Professor Mordane had berated Jon for a subpar essay. Now that she thought about it, it was right around when Cat herself had laid into Jon for taking Arya and Rickon and sneaking into the Wolfswood without telling anyone. He had been in hot water quite a bit that week. She had been livid – how could he have been so reckless? Didn’t he _know_ that there were people out there who would do untold things to them?

No, he hadn’t known. None of the children could have.

Because they hadn’t told any of the children precisely why they weren’t being sent to Hogwarts. Why they were all kept in the North. Any trips south were planned, chaperoned, and had contingencies in place. For all the good it had done them.

Because Cat had argued that they deserved innocence and protection. She had been so focused on the dangers from the outside world. Had she ignored something just as deleterious festering inside?

Yes, if Sansa’s behavior was anything to go by. Sansa couldn’t control Ned being called away to become Hand, or Cat’s own moods. But she could control her studying. Perhaps higher marks would rate more attention from the professors or from Ned – Ned – and Catelyn, where she would otherwise be ignored. Because indeed, she had been ignored.

Sansa had spent well over a year, now, being ignored in lieu of everyone else. Bran’s condition, Aunt Lysa’s investigation and house arrest, Ned’s job, Grandfather Hoster’s decline, Uncle Benjen’s whereabouts… And that was besides Robb and Jon’s antics and Arya’s newest adventures gone wrong. Come to think of it, she had started to look after Rickon more and more of late.

And now Sansa was missing, and Cat couldn’t sit the girl down and make her understand that she was smart. She couldn’t make her understand that even if she weren’t smart, even if Sansa were the dimmest girl in all of Westeros, she’d still be her daughter, and Cat would love her all the same.

Cat looked back at the list before she lost her nerve.

‘ _Arya:_ _Horseface_ ’

Her stomach clenched. How many times had she commented on Sansa’s looks and appearance? How many times had she complimented Sansa, with Arya standing right there? Realistically, Cat knew she hadn't gone on and on about how beautiful Sansa was. But she had been vocally proud of her Tully genes showing through. Because Sansa looked so much like Cat.

But that was probably the point, wasn’t it? Sansa looked like Cat. Robb, Bran and Rickon’s hair wasn’t quite the bright, coppery hue of Cat’s and Sansa’s. Their hair tended towards brown undertones, but they nonetheless had the striking coppery hair. In bright light, it could be hard to make out the brown for all of the vivid ginger reflecting out.

Her elder daughter looked a bit like Lysa, and their mother, if Cat’s vague memories of her were accurate. Sansa was surrounded by people who looked like her, she was regularly complimented on her looks.

Arya had Ned, Benjen and Jon.

Arya _had_ had Ned, Benjen and Jon.

With Ned gone and Benjen… gone, Arya just had Jon around to commiserate with for looks. And as much as it probably helped to have them around, none of them were girls. The girls she did have in her life, well…

Cat had meant to reprimand Sansa that morning. Truly. She had known Sansa and the girls had begun to leave Arya out of the clique. But she had been spending so much time with Jon, Cat had thought it might have been a mutual decision. Now though, it looked as though it was the result of targeted friction.

She knew Jeyne had a cruel streak that girls often have, and she had yet to grow out of it. She knew Beth, though kinder, could often be consumed by a single-mindedness for herbology, history, fashion and Tym, and fail to notice anything else. Sansa, though.

Cat had hoped Sansa would have refrained from joining into it. More than that, she should have supported her younger sister. Because they were sisters, after all.

Looking down at Ned’s short notation, she dispelled those thoughts.

Sansa’s behavior was bad, but it was nothing compared to Cat’s. As their mother, it was her job to help pull them together. As for the Horseface bit, Cat knew they could do better than just telling Arya she was pretty and not a horse face. Cat would need to find the damn photo albums that Ned had squirreled away somewhere. Knowing him, they were probably hidden away somewhere in that very office, tucked out of sight where no one could stumble over them by accident.

Years ago, Ned had decided he couldn’t bear the constant reminders of his father, brother and sister. He had gone through the keep and collected the photos and albums with their pictures. He had put them away so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at the faces of his siblings trapped in joyous youth while he continued to age. He had gone as far as to collect some of their keepsakes and store them somewhere. Aside from his siblings’ old brooms and Lyanna’s quaffles, anything they had meaningfully owned had been taken from sight. No more.

Cat would find the albums and dust off Lyanna’s pictures. She would show Arya that they were eerily similar-looking. Arya might as well have been Lyanna’s carbon copy. The girl had grown up hearing it all her life, she may as well see it was true.

Lyanna, too, had started out boyish and awkward. It was impressive how awkward a body she had had as a first and second year. How could someone so slight and short manage to look so gangly? With long, bold, pointed features that didn’t quite flow together the way most preferred. Neither Lyanna nor Arya had ever been ugly by any means, but their childhood faces lent themselves towards a sort of ruggedness, if that was the right term.

But just like Lyanna had grown into her elbows and knees, she had grown into her face as well. Catelyn again swore she’d sit Arya, both of the girls, down and make them both see the larger picture. Sansa, with her red hair and tall stature couldn’t stay missing for long. And Arya was never one to be overlooked if she were left to her own devices.

Cat turned back to Ned’s list.

‘ _Cat: Jon_ ’

‘ _Tell Jon._’

The last bit had been underlined.

It was as though she had been struck by a bolt. Jon. On top of everything else, Jon.

Cat had needed to lean on the desk. To her shame, she didn’t even need Ned around to translate what ‘Cat: Jon’ meant. Its meaning was clear as day. Ned had not gotten around to discussing Jon with Catelyn. Had not gotten around to telling Jon.

Grief and rage washed over her as she acknowledged that he would never do either thing. Six weeks. It had been almost two months now.

Almost two months since Professor Luwin had sent her a patronus to inform her that something terrible had happened and that she needed to return to Winterfell right away. Almost two months since she had arrived back home at night to find that Rodrick and Vayon had gone to the ministry to back them up against the wyverns. Jory had locked down Wintertown’s Academy against attack, though it was fairly unlikely loyalists would bother with a regional magical academy.

Robb and Jon had taken Rickon and holed themselves up in the kitchen. They had done their best to try to distract Rickon by experimenting to see if they could recreate the flavors of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. Cat tried not to think about exactly which flavors they might try to recreate.

St Mungo’s was locked down, they had heard. The girls would be safe there, she had known. Syrio was with them. And Clarysa Whitehill. They would look after them. Jory had even offered to head to St Mungo’s, now that the school and town were on alert. Under other circumstances, Cat would never have dreamed of prevailing upon him; he was barely of age, only a few years older than Robb and Jon. But Cat had been desperate.

Jory had returned sooner than expected, supporting an injured Vayon Poole. He had been quickly rushed to Wintertown’s hospital. Before anyone could ask him any questions, Jory had winked out of sight again.

Word had it that Ned and Robert Baratheon were both dead or captured, depending on whether one read _The Evening Prophet_ or _The Westerosi Word_. They both agreed that the attack on the ministry had been so grand that fighting had spilled out of the ministry and into King’s Landing. It had spread into muggle London, even. There were fears the muggles would know of their world, though nothing was definitive.

Hours later. Hours and hours had passed. The eastern horizon was beginning to grow pink and rosy with a new day. A disgusting display of beauty in the face of everyone’s fears.

Jory finally reappeared again, but this time with Bran’s limp form in his arms. Jory then obliged everyone’s desire to ask him questions by collapsing, drained from apparating so far, so many times.

Clarysa Whitehill was dead. After having run into Vayon and hearing St Mungo’s couldn’t take new patients, Jory had taken him north. Jory had gone straight back to St Mungo’s to find that the hospital had been breached. He had gone to her floor and found that she and several others had been killed or injured. He had found Bran’s room with neither of her daughters in sight. Bran had been just the same as far as Jory could tell. Jory had apologized for the rash decision, but he had opted to simply take Bran.

And so they had continued to wait, only this time Cat didn’t have the luxury of thinking the girls were safe with Bran. Where could they be? Was Ned truly dead, or had he been captured? Where was Syrio? Why hadn’t either of them brought the girls back? Why hadn’t either of them sent word?

She replayed that fateful morning in her mind again and again. She had shunned Jon. She had lashed out at Arya. She had ignored Sansa. She hadn’t bothered to say goodbye to Ned. Oh, Ned.

Rodrik had returned at some point after, looking ready to drop from exhaustion. It was unofficial and yet to be announced, but Rodrik had confided to Catelyn that Ned was dead and that he had seen Syrio’s body in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Syrio had been found relatively near Ned’s office. Still with no sign of either of the girls.

It had taken some pressuring, but Cat had gotten Rodrik to break down and tell her more of what he had seen. The very thought she would be receiving Ned in more than one piece had turned her stomach. There had been an entire spectacle made of it. An example. Ned had spent his adult life trying to put the pieces of Westeros back together and it had reared back and torn him apart.

Word had come that they had recovered his wand. It was part of their investigation still, but it would be sent to Winterfell as soon as they finished with it. Somewhere beneath Cat’s feet, the bodies and wands of Starks who had died before him were interred. She ruminated over the differences in how some families preferred to handle their dead.

The day after she found out Ned’s fate, Cat had taken a walk in the crypts. It was her first time there alone, and she spent more time down there that day than she ever had combined.

Normally, she would never have gone without Ned or the children. She would never have gone down on her own. The only people she knew down there were Brandon and Lyanna, and while they had been friendly with one another, they had never been that close.

But that day, after Rodrik had told her, she had donned a cloak and headed down. She even braved Theon “The Hungry Wolf” Stark’s ghost. He often patrolled the castle, paying special attention to the First Keep and the crypts. That day, though, it seemed he sensed that things were amiss. He had passed her by, his spectral eyes ever-scanning.

Through the generations, Starks might have been buried elsewhere, with the families of their in-laws, for example. A fair number of Starks from the past could be found in the family graves of the Flints, Norreys, Blackwoods, Royces and any other number of far distant relatives. Those who followed the Old Gods often had their wands buried in the nearest godswood, or else left in a weirwood's branches. For many northerners, including Starks who had died far from home, that had been done.

But the Starks who were buried in Winterfell’s crypts were not sent into the arms of the river for a watery resting place like the Tullys, with their wands woven into the raft beneath them. Nor were they buried with their wands pointed skyward like the Tyrells, where the corpse might foster new growth, new life.

The Starks who lay beneath Winterfell were immured within a stone sarcophagus without their wands. Catelyn had only ever been down there a few times, and she could never fight off a sense of unrest there. How could a dead witch or wizard rest when no effort was made to let their wand rest, too?

Some families, particularly poorer ones, passed their wands down. Catelyn had always thought passing wands down through families to be a beautiful concept. Though not at rest, they were at least able to remain among the living. They received an extension on life, on having magic flow through them, for however long their physical components could last.

But this? This was unnatural.

For some ancient, baffling reason, the Starks placed the corpses of the deceased in stone boxes while their wands were placed in the hands of the stone statues that guarded them.

She had only ever visited the section of the crypts that held Ned’s closer relatives. She had never worked up the nerve to truly explore anywhere else. His grandparents, an uncle and great grandparents. She had to walk by their stone statues that stood guard in front of the sarcophagi that held their respective corpse. She was uneasy around these stone statues – with the likeness of the person they guarded, holding the wand they had held in life.

Cat had once peeked down the hallway of another section, one of the older ones. The statues there stood guard, some with swords and others with wands, depending on which they had used in life. Some of the swords held by some of the most ancient statues had been reduced to dust, revealing that they were just that – mere swords. A few remained as sharp and deadly as ever, having been preserved by some ancient magic.

The wands though, were held in some kind of suspension. The magic down here prevented their magic from dispersing.

Rickard Stark had been burnt, and there had been no effort to send any remaining ash north after the war. Brandon Stark’s body – or what they had been told was Brandon’s body – had been sent north, but there had been no sign of his wand. Rickard’s statue guarded an empty stone box, bereft of any wand. Brandon’s stood guard over Brandon, also empty-handed.

Poor Lyanna.

Ned had brought her back. Cat had never been able to truly look towards Lyanna’s tomb or statue before that day. But when she’d gone down after what Rodrik had told her, she had stared at both for a long time.

Lyanna’s statue seemed different from the others, somehow. The statues all stood in their own preferred stances. Some stood at attention with their wands held down at their side. Others stood with their feet wide, ready to draw and fight. Lyanna’s held her wand in front with one hand, as though mid-way through a spell. Her other hand was held palm up. Was she ready to catch something she conjured? The details of her face were too vague to read very deep.

Catelyn had been sad passing by Rickard’s tomb. He wasn’t even there, after all. She had always been unsure passing by Brandon’s. It might not have been him, after all. But his wand was there. She was downright unsettled passing by Lyanna’s.

Lyanna and her wand had lived a vivacious life together. They had been separated. And now that she was dead, she still didn’t get to rest with her wand.

Perhaps that was why Catelyn had never felt easy with Winterfell’s crypts or its godswood. Raised with the Seven, she had found structure and comfort in Septs, and been able to mourn and rejuvenate at the river. Perhaps her unease was that the timeless quality of a Sept was so drastically different from the timeless feeling of the Old Gods and down here.

There was the structured promise of everlasting rest according to the Faith. The Old Gods didn’t seem to adhere to any prescribed method. They were unpredictable. The crypt statues looked ready to leap into action. Stark wands were kept at the ready even after their wielders had died, ready for what? There was no rest down here.

She didn’t want that fate for her wand. To be held in suspension, neither able to fully die, nor able to stay among the living. If its only company was to be the cold hand of a statue interred far under the frozen ground, she’d rather have her wand snapped.

Cat brought herself back into the present, into the cold air. She couldn’t continue to think herself through contorted mazes over the dead. It was August, for Seven’s sake. She was due for a meeting with Hand Stannis Baratheon in a few days, and she was out of time to waste.

Ned had meant to speak to Catelyn about Jon, a topic she had instinctively known was coming sooner or later. He had meant to speak to Jon, to ‘tell him.’ But Ned could do neither now, and she would be damned to all the Seven Hells before she headed to King’s Landing without doing what needed to be done. She nearly laughed at the thought.

After reading Ned’s to-do list, she was painfully aware of some of the many ways in which she had failed as a mother. Failed as a decent person. Who was she kidding? She probably already had one foot in the first of the Seven Hells. She’d been stood outside for long enough that she was thoroughly chilled, but if she was doomed for the hells, she’d need every bit of cold available.

She trudged back inside while mentally deliberating. Should she have Robb there? This would ideally be for Jon’s ears only, at least at first. But the only way to hide Jon’s parentage had been to say that Jon was biologically hers and Ned’s. Since the boys were only three months apart in age, the only plausible explanation would be to say they were fraternal twins. It had been a simple enough lie to the outside world.

Clarysa Whitehill had been the one to help deliver Robb. Catelyn had been fearfully young and alone but for Clarysa. Clarysa’s studies as a healer, though nearly complete, had been nonetheless interrupted by the war and she had retreated to the north for a modicum of safety.

Clarysa had seen Cat through the delivery. More than that, she had truly been the soul of discretion when they had asked her to say that the two boys were twins if asked. And she had taken it all in stride. She had even been humorous about it – she technically wasn’t a licensed healer yet, so it wasn’t as though she had the means to register any births.

Besides, registering the births with King’s Landing was more of a Southern habit. Northerners typically registered births with Wintertown’s hospital and city hall, both of which answered to … Winterfell. The logistics of the lie had been so easy.

But that meant they had lied to Robb, too. Which meant he deserved to know just as much as Jon that they were not technically brothers, let alone twins.

Cat was glad to see the decision was pretty much made for her when she entered the library. Professor Luwin was with Robb, Jon and Rickon. Professor Mordane was at another table arranging her files on each of the childrens’ progress. She couldn’t very well call only one of them away.

“Professor Luwin, could I take Robb and Jon for a bit?”

“Of course,” he had nodded and gestured to Professor Mordane. “We’ll take care of the kids-” He broke himself off guiltily at his reference to plural children. With Bran at the hospital, albeit a closer one, and the girls missing, Rickon would be the only one under his and Mordane’s charge.

As she led the boys to Ned’s office, she could feel them positively vibrating in anticipation. Did she have news, they were surely wondering. Was it bad news, since Rickon was being left out? The moment she had closed the door to the office behind them, Robb had burst out:

“Is it Sansa and Arya? Is there any news?” Cat gave a brittle smile.

“No, I’ve brought you here about something else. I’ll be heading to the ministry in a few days. Stannis Baratheon is still trying to get a handle on things while the new Minister and Hand settle in, and I’m going to try and convince him to allow me to lead the search for those who are still missing.” There were several who were still missing, beyond the girls. A handful of ministry employees, a few King’s Landing residents.

“Okay,” Robb had sat back again, bracing himself.

“First,” Cat felt herself bracing as well as she turned to Jon. “I owe you an apology. I have been horrible to you this past year. Longer, even.” Jon’s face had gone quizzical. Perhaps he was wondering what had prompted her to bring up such an oblique topic, given everything else they had going on.

“It’s fine-” Jon tried to say.

“It’s not fine.” Cat gently interrupted him. “And I’m not finished.” She turned to Robb. “I also owe the both of you another apology. You see, despite…” _Despite the way I’ve treated everyone this year_ , her inner voice practiced. _Despite the fact that both Ned and I have lied to you your whole lives_.

She was going to throttle Ned the next time she saw him. How could he leave her like this? How could he bring home a motherless, fatherless newborn and have her help him lie? How could he then up and get himself killed, leaving her to reveal all their lies without him? She was going to hex him until he wished she had deducted every house point Gryffindor had ever earned the next time she saw him…

The shock of forgetting and remembering her new status of widowhood hurt all over again.

“Mother?” Robb prompted her into the present. She took a shaky breath.

“Your father would have been so much better at this, I’m afraid. He would probably say something perfect right now and then come right out with it. I don’t have some perfect lead in, so I’ll just say it:

“You’re not – the pair of you aren’t really brothers – I mean, _you are_ , and you always will be! But you aren’t really _twins_.

“Your father and I have lied to you, but please trust me when I tell you that Ned was planning on telling you if he hadn’t – if he hadn’t…” She shook her head.

“He was planning on telling you, only I was holding everything up. I wasn’t ready to have you know. And I was so preoccupied with your grandfather Hoster’s health, and then Bran!” She realized she had started to ramble, and that her throat felt so tight it was difficult to speak.

“Robb, Ned and I are your parents. I had graduated Hogwarts already, and Ned was only a couple of months away from graduating, himself. But then Lyanna disappeared, and her wand was left behind so your grandfather and uncle went berserk. Lyanna would never have just left her wand behind. We found out we were going to have you a couple of months later.

“Well, you know what happened after that. Ned and I were terrified. His sister had disappeared and his father and brother were dead in the span of a few weeks. He left school before graduating – well, Professor Arryn had pretty much dragged him here to Winterfell to save him. And then I realized that my visiting him during one of his trips to Hogsmeade had resulted in, well…” Cat started to trail off when she saw the discomfort start to creep up in the faces across from her.

“Oh, for Seven’s Sake! Professor Mordane has made sure you know very well where babies come from. We’re not in medieval times here! What are you, blushing maids?”

“Sorry,” came the bashful mumbles. Oddly, the three of them quirked small smiles at the unexpected moment of normalcy. The levity was odd, but reassuring.

“Right, well. All of that was to say that Ned and I are your biological parents, Robb. But Jon,” Cat faltered.

“I love you. I – I’ve been horrible to you for a long while now. But you need to know it wasn’t because I didn’t give birth to you, I _swear_ it!

“I don’t even know all the reasons why I’ve acted the way I have. At some point, when we have more time, I can sit down and try to parse it out with you, but for right now you need to know that Ned and I love you. I’ve failed you as mother – I haven’t truly been a mother to you these last months, but it isn’t because I don’t love you! You are just as much a son to me as any of the others.” Cat swallowed, watching her hands wring themselves in her lap. She wouldn’t be able to get it out if she looked at Jon right now, so she plunged on.

“Since Ned and I aren’t, technically, your parents, you need to know who they are. Were. You look a lot like Ned, you know. He’s your uncle, if we’re being technical about it. You have the Stark look because you are a Stark. But on your mother’s side. Your father was Rhaegar Targaryen, and your mother was Lyanna.”

For a moment, she held her breath. It was out, now. Finally. The boys had recently turned fifteen. It had been fifteen years now, since Ned had returned to Winterfell with a newborn infant, leaning on Howland’s shoulders. Had it really been that long? Cat rushed to tack on:

“I know it’s all a shock, but I promise you it’s the truth-”

“I know.”

Her head snapped up from looking at her hands.

“What?” She asked numbly. Jon took a deep breath.

“I know. That Aunt Lyanna was my mother. I’ve known for a while.” The room seemed to tilt.

“But, how-?”

“Robb told me.” Cat snapped her eyes to look at Robb. “He told me about two years ago, now.” She felt ready to keel over.

“How did you-?” Robb gave a half-hearted shrug and an expression took over that showed he was trying to look more guilty than he truly felt. Almost.

“It was a lot of little things.” Robb explained. “And then, well, I went snooping.” He looked over to a narrow tapestry, behind which lay an alcove. A tiny room with a bench that curved with the room around the pensieve.

“You-?” She couldn’t even form sentences.

“I think Jon and I were about seven or eight years old when you first started acting strange towards us. Towards Jon. It was right around that case or something, the one that made Father decide to quit the ministry.

“And then, a couple of years ago, we heard you and Father arguing a lot. That’s why I went snooping. I thought I might figure out what it was that was bothering you both so much all of a sudden, and why Father had left the ministry. I guess I thought I could help you fix it.” He shifted.

“I found Father’s memory of when he found Aunt Lyanna dying. She made him promise to protect her baby and… well, it started to make sense then. So I told Jon so he could see.”

“And you’ve both seen it?” Cat asked. The boys nodded, watching her warily. By the Seven, Ned had never shown that memory to anyone, including her. The only reason she knew anything was because he had needed her to help with the cover story.

“What about the girls? Or the boys?” Cat asked. Dear gods, if the younger boys had seen it-

“No,” Robb and Jon answered simultaneously.

“No,” Jon continued. “We were,” he paused to find the right word. “Surprised at first, to say the least. But after a while, we put the pieces together. The prophecy that the wyverns kept going on about, and why we weren’t allowed to go to Hogwarts, even though you both went. And why you were afraid of me.”

Something snapped in her at that last bit. She didn’t know whether it was humiliation or grief or what. All she knew was that she had launched herself at them and the three of them had somehow slid from the bench to the floor. After a while, she disentangled herself from them and looked at Jon.

“I suppose you don’t have as many questions as I thought you would, since you already know,” Cat said while she dabbed at her eyes. “But if you do, I’ll answer what I can.” He must have had the question at the forefront of his mind, because he was somehow ready with one.

“Did,” Jon started picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. Whatever it was, Jon’s question meant he couldn't meet her eyes. “Did Prince Rhaegar kidnap her? Or did she go with him?”

“Didn’t Lyanna tell Ned? In his memory?” Cat asked curiously. Now that she looked back, she realized Ned had never explicitly said whether he knew what precisely had happened. As socially inept as he often was, Ned had somehow always managed to deflect any discussion away from touching on that subject.

Both boys shook their heads. She supposed it would have been too good to be true, to have Lyanna simply come out and solve the mystery from beyond the grave. Cat rubbed her temples as Jon continued:

“In the memory, Lyanna was already dying when he got there. Something had gone wrong after she had me, and there wasn’t a healer to help her. She didn’t really seem lucid. She just kept telling him to protect me, and that people like Lorch and Clegane couldn’t know.” She nodded to herself. That, at least, made perfect sense to her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know,” she said softly. “The answer to that very question might have prevented the whole war. It also might have started one anyway, to be honest. Loyalists claim he loved her and that Lyanna either loved him back or manipulated him. I didn’t know her that well; I was a few years ahead of her and in a different house, but she never seemed like the type to play with people’s feelings.”

“So, you don’t even have any idea?” Jon pressed. It was now Jon’s turn to suddenly find his hands in his lap the most interesting thing to look at. Mother’s Mercy, Catelyn had never dreamed that she would be trying to handle this on her own.

Was it better to paint a positive light on his mother’s character? But to buttress one parent’s reputation would mean disparaging the other, and ultimately both. And depending on which story Jon chose to believe, it could mean the difference between thinking he was the product of either gross stupidity that led to the deaths of thousands or else something far more horrific that also led to the deaths of thousands.

“Truly, I don’t have anything to prove either story,” Cat took a breath. “Rhaegar was certainly handsome. He was married, yes, and a father. But that had never stopped women from admiring him. And he was older, but not that old. I think he was twenty-three or twenty-four when he died. He was the Crown Prince. Rich, powerful, smart. He spoke well. And he was charismatic. If not Lyanna, then some other girl would have happily fallen for him. He was magnetic like that.

“The reason the loyalists say Lyanna either seduced him or loved him was because rumors had been going around that Lyanna was planning on breaking up with Robert Baratheon. They had been dating, you see, but Robert had never been a very attentive boyfriend. And he’d had a lot of girlfriends by his seventh year. There was always some rumor or other about how much he cheated on all his girlfriends. At least in Ravenclaw, people were convinced it was only a matter of time before Lyanna left him.”

Catelyn pulled a sigh, wondering if Ned had rubbed off on her more than she thought. Still, she was willing to give herself a pass on this one. Raking up the school drama and gossip from a lifetime ago was exhausting.

“I will say that she really had been planning on leaving Robert. She had grown up with Robert, in a way; he was always popping in and out of Winterfell during holidays. Lyanna liked him as a friend well enough and I imagine he might have seemed like a fun and comfortable companion, but he brought a lot of baggage.

“I suppose it would have been a lot for a fifteen-year-old to handle, dating someone so complicated while under constant scrutiny. I’m also not certain whether she saw him as more of a romantic interest or as a sort-of brother.

“Regardless, Robert was never an easy person to date. She confided in your Uncle Benjen as much, but she never said anything to him about liking Prince Rhaegar.

“Anyway, Benjen always suspected that there was probably some aspect of coercion involved. For all that Lyanna was impulsive, she wasn’t the type to just drop off the map without telling anyone. And the reason your Uncle Brandon went to King’s Landing in the first place was because he, your Grandfather Rickard and all her brothers, knew Lyanna would never go anywhere without her wand. Not willingly, anyway.”

“So, no one knows.” Jon summarized. A part of him seemed listless. He didn’t react when Robb reached out to touch his shoulder.

“I’m afraid that the two people who would know best are both dead.” Catelyn confirmed. Together, they picked themselves off the floor and Catelyn drew up a platter of food. Rickon was surely feeling even more alone, but none of them felt ready to face him just yet.

“I want to go with you,” Robb said. She cocked her head. “To see Stannis Baratheon. I could help find Sansa and Arya. Professor Luwin tells us we’re fairly advanced in our studies. I wouldn’t slow you down. Besides, we’d be faster with more people.”

“No. Absolutely not. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell, and I’m not about to make Rickon hold the line.” She looked to Jon. “I’m surprised you aren’t demanding to go, too.”

“That’s because I’m going to stay in the north for now. To rally help from some of the northern families to look for Uncle Benjen.” Jon said simply. Her face must have shown her disbelief because he continued. “You heard him last time, he thought he was being followed between his assignments. Now that the ministry has their hands full, there’s no way they’ll keep looking for him.”

“You must be joking,” Catelyn managed to say. “What makes you think you could find him when your father and all the ministry’s resources couldn’t? Where would you even start?”

“Father wasn’t looking for him. Not himself, anyway. And he couldn’t use all the ministry’s resources,” Jon answered. He was trying to answer smoothly; knowing the boys, they had probably practiced this so as to seem confident and capable.

“As for where to start, Uncle Benjen was afraid he was being followed, so it would make sense he wouldn’t just come here if he didn’t know who it was or what they wanted. But we,” he exchanged a look with Robb. Of course they already had an entire game plan mapped out. They were thick as thieves.

“We think he would try to stick to the places he knows well. He knows the North. He mentioned visiting Castle Black, it’s worth a try. He knows Siberia and the steppes. Canada and the US, too, but we don’t think that’s as likely. I’ll start with the North. If I can’t find him in Westeros, I’ll go abroad.”

“You foolish boy!” Catelyn burst out. She couldn’t keep listening to this madness. “You know nothing of Siberia! And the West is a haven for dark wizards on the run – you think you would just wander around there and find him? And Castle Black is as cursed as Harrenhal! You, the both of you!” She was up now, pacing Ned’s office floor as though it were hers.

“We know about the West,” Jon tried to argue. “We’ve been there to visit your brother and-”

“You’ve been there _with us_ ,” Catelyn shot back. “With me and Ned, and Uncle Brynden! The most dangerous place we went were national parks, and we never let you leave our sight. And don’t pretend you’ve gone pioneering on the edge. You’ve explored New York and Boston! They’re not exactly the Western Wildlands!"

"But-"

“No. The answer is no. You’re not coming with me, and you certainly aren’t going to go gallivanting around on a fool’s errand looking for your uncle. He’s been missing since last year. The trail has gone cold. He’s the ministry’s top ranging auror, and you think you can just _find him?_ If he’s out there and has decided not to be found, you’ll _never_ find him. He grew up learning to live in the north-!”

“So did we! Even Rickon can handle himself in the wolfswood-.” Robb interjected, but Cat was having none of it.

“Rickon doesn’t have the attention span to finish his porridge! He’s a _child_ , as are the both of you! You’re both fifteen! Benjen is a trained auror. He’s the First Ranger, for Seven’s Sake! He graduated from Hogwarts and took an extra three years of training just to become an auror. It took another year and a half to become a ranger. He’s worked for seven years tracking wizards far more dangerous than the likes of Amory Lorch.”

Cat collapsed back into her chair and kneaded her temples. Robb and Jon were looking windblown at her tirade. If she weren’t so suddenly weary, she might have felt bad about it. She put her head in her hands.

Cat had meant to cross off the items on Ned’s to-do list. How could a melancholy discussion to reveal to Jon of his parentage turn into this? When had they decided that they could run off on some adventure?

“Mother,” Cat looked up into Jon’s somber face. “Are you alright?” She almost laughed. She had half expected Jon to react to this conversation by refusing to call her his mother anymore. Instead, Jon and Robb had confessed their intentions to run headlong into the unknown, mere weeks after their father and Robb’s namesake had been murdered and their sisters had gone missing. Jon’s namesake had been dead for a whole year. And now he was asking her if she was alright.

“I’m heading south soon,” Cat cleared her voice. It had gone sore from her yelling. “You’re not coming.” Robb looked ready to fight her so she headed him off. “I need you both to give me your word that neither of you will leave Winterfell while I meet with Stannis. That you’ll stay with Rickon. We can discuss this after, when I get back.”

The boys went still and she could see the gears turning in their heads.

“You’re both underage,” she reminded them. “I will confiscate your wands if I have to.” That did it. She received two grudging nods, but she wasn’t done. “Say it.”

“We won’t leave Winterfell while you meet with Stannis.” They recited in unison. They might not really be twins but by the gods, they could have fooled her.

“Look, you two,” Cat tried to ease their disappointment. “It isn’t that I don’t think you can handle yourselves. Truly, the pair of you are far better prepared than I ever was at your age, your father and Lyanna too, probably. Lyanna was a brilliant witch. Some of the professors said she was the cleverest witch of our age. And she died anyway.

"Ned was a great wizard too. Not as flashy as some of our peers, but nonetheless. But even Ned was afraid, even after the war. That’s why he quit the ministry. It’s why he and I argued all the time back then. Thousands died the last time around, and it didn’t matter how brave or capable or prepared you were. Sometimes it just came down to luck. We were afraid for you.”

“But we were here at Winterfell the whole time,” Robb said, cocking his head. “Why would you be more afraid all of a sudden?”

And there it was.

Secrets were like clogged faucets, Catelyn thought. They caused nothing but grief and got in the way of everything. Clearing the way for the truth was painful. But now? It seemed there was nothing more to do than to let the rest flow out. She was so tired.

She had fought with Ned to keep the children innocent, none-the-wiser. _Let them be children_ , she would say, would beg. _Let us go to America, where they can stay children, and my Uncle Brynden will help keep them safe._ _They won’t have to know all the sordid details_. Ned had always given her a look of disappointment. Not disappointment of her, exactly. Disappointment at her ignorance. Because he had known what she hadn’t.

“ _Secrets are the heaviest burdens._ ” He would sometimes respond. But she would never listen. Cat had never realized just how heavy it had all become. She didn’t want to do this alone.

“There was a case,” Cat began wearily. “You probably don’t remember, but your father was called out late one night to respond to an attack. It was that case that prompted him to resign and stay in the north.

“That’s why we were fighting all the time. I wanted to move to the States, or even better Canada. The States had Ilvermorny, and your uncle and cousins. Canada would have let us be more secluded. You all could go to Ilvermorny, or we would just teach you ourselves. We’d be safe. We’d be near more family.

"The MaCUSA has similar policies as far as the Statute of Secrecy and how they educate young witches and wizards. They’ve warded off even larger swathes of magical regions than you can even dream of.” She reeled herself back in from the dream that would never be.

“But Ned felt he had a duty to stay. To remain and try to keep putting Westeros back together.” She couldn’t quite keep her bitterness out of her voice. If only he had _listened to her_ , if only she had won, they’d all be safe across the pond. Safe, and alive, and together. She had always loved and respected Ned’s sense of duty, but family had always ranked first for Cat. It was a clash of priorities that they could never resolve.

“We were stressed and afraid that we might be next. That’s why we hired Professor Luwin, and then Professor Mordane.” Robb and Jon wore matching expressions of confusion. “The prophecy. Your father, Jon Arryn, Robert Baratheon… they tried to keep the prophecy quiet. But with something that big, details leaked out. Some started saying it was the continuation of the ancient prophecy of Azor Ahai, and that only inflamed everything that much more. By now pretty much everyone has heard some of the details,” they nodded.

“So you see, any of Ned’s children were targets because he had defied King Aerys. Any children of Rhaegar could be seen as targets, depending on whether one believes he defied his father,” she sent Jon a meaningful look.

“Any children by Jon Arryn, but Robin wasn’t favored because he was already school aged and studying at Ilvermorny by the time the prophecy came out. Rumors of the prophecy were so convoluted that even Jon’s nephew Elbert was included, and _his_ father had died long before the rebellion. Any children by Robert Baratheon. They were all targets, as candidates of the prophecy. The Promised One,” she added bitterly.

“But the minister doesn’t have any children,” Robb pointed out. “Unless,” he paused, remembering his namesake’s unfortunate reputation.

“Yes, he does. You’ve never met them because they were mostly kept secret. Robert has a daughter about your age, perhaps a year or two younger than you. And he’s had several other children by various women over the years. Robert’s son was attacked in the case that caused your father to quit.” She miserably picked at the abandoned platter.

“I knew his mother. She was a Ravenclaw a year ahead of me. She was nice. When the prophecy came out, everyone was wondering whether it could really change anything. Prophecies are tricky things. But Thea – that’s her name – she wanted to stay on the safe side. She took her son and went into hiding. Got a secret keeper and everything. But they got to her, anyway.”

“So the wyverns killed one of the prophecy’s candidates,” Jon concluded slowly, piecing things together in his mind.

“As it turns out, no.” Again, Cat wondered just how convoluted this would get before all was said and done. “He disappeared that night, you see. That’s why your father was gone so much during that time. Everyone was desperate to find him. But nothing came of it and eventually the search was called off. After that, your father resigned. But Jon Arryn found him last year. I don’t know all the details, but he did. And then he was murdered-.” She came to a halt.

By his wife. Her own aunt. She was still being investigated for the murder, but it was becoming increasingly clear that her aunt had either been under the influence of the imperious curse, or was somehow compromised otherwise. She had seemingly gone mad since and was under house arrest. Yet another mess that had no end in sight.

Cat had tried to take the girls to visit Aunt Lysa several months ago, but she had refused to acknowledge them, simply continuing to putter around the ancient holdfast as though she were still waiting for her husband to arrive home. From what her nephew Robin had told her, he had received much the same response. Still, Robin was still beginning his career with the MaCUSA, so he had been able to retreat and escape abroad to continue his work. It had been down to Catelyn to arrange care for her father, and now her aunt.

“So Robert asked Ned to come back as Hand and he did. He started tracking down Robert’s children, and looking for any other likely candidates. But if the wyverns somehow found out that Ned was compiling prophecy candidates, it would have made him an even bigger target.” And now he was dead, too.

“Jysus,” Robb said. Cat didn’t have the heart to reprimand him for saying the name in vain. It wasn’t like he followed the Faith, anyway.

Of course, this day just had to grow even longer: a knock sounded at the door, and Professor Luwin stuck his head in.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said. “But I thought you might want to see the news. Professor Mordane is tuning the wireless downstairs right now.” He held out a copy of the Evening Prophet.

Rickon was relieved to have the three of them back.

Rickon hadn’t really had a concept for Grandfather Hoster’s illness or Great Aunt Lysa’s troubles, but he also didn’t see them all that often, so he wasn’t terribly bothered by it, beyond the stress from the rest of the family.

It was Bran’s condition, Ned’s sudden change, working long days, and then Benjen’s disappearance that had started to get to Rickon and the rest of the children. With Ned and the girls now dead or missing, Rickon had become even more anxious. He wouldn’t be happy when Cat left, even if it was only to be for a day or two.

For now, he was relieved to be with her, Robb and Jon again.

Even if the evening paper was filled with more uncertainty and fear, Cat was comforted in being able to peruse it on the sofa while the boys sat around the wireless. Even if the wireless was airing a debate between some dornish man and a greyjoy, arguing over how Westeros should be revealed, Cat was relieved. She didn’t have everyone here. Though Ned would never again sit with them in the living room, she would get the girls back.

Catelyn lowered the paper just enough to spy at Robb and Jon as they sat on either side of Rickon next to the wireless’ table. They were exchanging looks back and forth. Over the wireless, a feckless whitecloak was attempting to mediate between the two debaters, though neither of them seemed to pay him any mind. Cat narrowed her eyes.

Robb and Jon may have promised to remain at Winterfell during her visit south. They may take after Ned’s propensity for being sticklers for keeping their word. But they were also fifteen-year-old boys. Besides which, Cat had caught Ned on more than one occasion while at Hogwarts and deducted points for it. Granted, it was invariably because Robert had dragged him along.

Jon was paying close attention when the dornish speaker and greyjoy began debating over their respective policy proposals for the Targaryens. It seemed that both agreed that they had been removed from the throne for justifiable reasons, to put it mildly. And both acknowledged that the remaining Targaryens were watching from across the channel.

Former Prince Viserys was hypothesized to want to reinstate the throne, based on rumors of his canvasing for support from various Essosi entities. It posed a quandary, since it was undetermined whether Prince Rhaegar’s children would want such a thing. They had escaped – barely – from the likes of Lorch and Clegane. If anyone had a right to the throne, it would be them. If they did not press a claim, then Viserys could likely be ignored out of hand.

Throughout the panel’s musings on the subject, Jon had leaned in. As though being closer to the wireless would get him closer to the panelists.

Technically, Jon was half-siblings with Rhaenys and Aegon. Their whereabouts were unknown, given the bloody escape they had made years before. Elia hadn’t made it, that much was known. Her specific fate had fueled Catelyn’s own fears for herself and her family. Even if her children were to escape, would they be stalked by images of her bloodied body for years after?

Whether Rhaenys and Aegon were even still alive was undetermined for most of the population. Ned and Robert had done their best to keep it quiet that they were alive. Part of her feared what would befall them should their whereabouts be revealed. Would the loyalists hold them aloft as Targaryens who deserved the throne? If they renounced their claim, would Viserys or Danaerys push for it?

Cat could see the gears turning in Jon’s head. Would they have any interest in meeting Jon, if they should come to Westeros? Or would they spurn contact with the son of the girl who had ripped their family apart? Would they have a sense of kinship for him?

She would need to tell Professor Luwin to keep a close eye on Jon. The two of them had always got along well. For now, she was content to skim the pages of the evening paper and watch the boys listen to the wireless. Watch them as they listened and try to understand as the world shaped itself anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder that Chapter 16 will have Gendry and should be posted sometime this weekend. Also, I swear I’m working on getting chapter lengths back down to something easier to digest.


	16. The Ministry's Beheading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to St Mungo’s is cut short. A child flees the chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skips around in the second part of the chapter. Italicized dialogue indicates that it took place in the past.

Gendry pulled his collection of chocolate frog cards from his pocket and spread them out, arranging them on the table. Chocolate Frogs and Drooble’s gum seemed to be her two favorite sweets and resulted in his ever growing collection.

Technically, the gum was provided by his mum – or Healer Whitehill, more likely. The chocolate frogs were what Gendry brought, having accumulated a large supply from around Gryffindor Tower. He had discovered that Marwyn Dodgson, a third year,had recently become Hogwarts’ walking Easter Bunny, only year round. Everywhere Dodgson went, he was always dropping chocolate frogs. Word had it he spent his Hogsmeade visits solely at Honeydukes to stock up on his supply of sweets. Gendry had started picking them up and bringing them to his mum.

It was a trade; he would bring her chocolate frogs and she would give him gum wrappers. She might choose to keep some of the cards, stuffing them into the pocket of her cardigan. She would choose others to leave on the table.

Gendry knew it was probably erroneous, but he interpreted those to be the ones she wanted him to take back to school until his next visit. Their visits had somehow turned into sessions of deliberation over which cards he would take with him and which would stay with her. Upon the next visit, they would sort through them again and decide which cards would go with whom.

Most of his frog card collection were of Tywin Lannister, but he had a fair few of Olenna Tyrell, Bryndyn Tully and Yohn Royce. He even had a growing collection of cards depicting more historical figures like Septon Barth, Lann the Clever, Queen Alysanne, King Durran “Godsgrief” and Bran “The Builder” Stark.

Gendry briefly wondered whether Ned Stark felt odd at all, knowing he had family members who’s ancestors were depicted in children’s candy as collectible items. Bran The Builder wasn’t quite depicted, really. He had lived so long ago now that he predated magical paintings, which had become customary in Westeros at least a thousand years ago.

Bran the Builder’s portrait consisted of an oddly smudged sketch that didn’t move, yet still somehow gave the impression of distinct dreariness. It seemed that some things never changed.

Gendry might have asked Mr. Stark whether it was strange just earlier – he’d stuck his head in – but it seemed Mr. Stark was simply checking in on him and didn’t have time to talk.

It was odd; Professor Tyrell, Mr. Stark, even Jon Arryn. All these people were constantly looking in on him as if they thought he might disappear. He shook himself.

Together, he and his mum put their heads together and slid them this way and that, arranging them in ways Gendry didn’t understand.

His mum never spoke, nor did she smile much. She would sometimes make eye contact before her eyes instantly fell and darted away. They would settle on some middle distance. Every so often, she would get a glazed look and a small smile might ghost over her face. Otherwise, her expression was generally a blank one.

Healer Whitehill had told him it was quite normal for her.

“But you put her at ease,” she had told him during one visit. “I’ve been with her long enough, I can tell.”

Gendry wasn’t certain there was much difference between his mum at ease versus not. Either way, spending the occasional weekend morning pushing chocolate frog cards around was one of their most common activities. Stacking Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrappers into short, crinkled towers seemed to be another one of their rituals.

Thea Waters moved with a certain slowness. In walking, sitting, standing, she did it all slowly. At the moment, she used shaky fingers to slide Septon Barth’s card along the table so it sat near a corner of the table. She held it there for a moment before sliding it in an arc and arranging it next to Yohn Royce. Gendry passed Tywin Lannister’s card to her and watched as she took it on a trip around the table’s surface.

Yoren typically took him on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Gendry would knock on Yoren’s cabin door and Yoren would usher him inside. They would take Yoren’s fireplace and floo to St Mungo’s. Yoren could run errands in Diagon Alley or pick up flesh eating slug repellent or whatever else he needed to do. Once he was done, he would pick up Gendry and they would return to school, again via the floo network.

Gendry didn’t time his visits. Yoren would pick him up when he would pick him up. He would normally return to St Mungo’s sometime in the early afternoon. It was still late morning and Gendry fully expected to be there for another couple of hours at least.

The easy quiet was broken by an echoing cry that started out faint and grew to reverberate everywhere. It was eerie and didn’t sound human. It quickly grew into a roar and seemed to get louder and louder. It didn’t exactly hurt Gendry’s ears, but loud was simply the only way he could describe it.

So it came as a surprise to Gendry when an enormous _‘Boom!’_ sounded off.

The both of them flinched and then the building heaved and bucked, knocking him from his chair. Some sort of rippling force had rocked the building, and Gendry had an odd sense that it had gone through everything. Strangely, aside from things being knocked over, there was no apparent damage.

Picking himself up from the floor, Gendry turned to help his mother. She simply lay on the floor with unfocused eyes, surrounded by scattered frog cards, wearing the same blank expression.

“Er, Thea?” Gendry tried uncertainly. He was still experimenting with what to call her. Not that it made much difference, since she never seemed to respond much to anything, let alone spoken words.

“Mum? Do you need help up?” She didn’t seem to be in any undue pain or distress. Gendry knelt next to her and tried to figure out whether he should touch her or not.

Sirens and car alarms were sounding off in the street below and people were running up and down the corridor outside the room. Gendry stood and took a look outside the window. Yoren had explained that St Mungo’s was located where it was due to it’s historical location being surrounded by muggle development.

They had never bothered to move St Mungo’s because King’s Landing was quite cramped and finding a location large enough without impinging on neighbors with sick people traipsing through was a political nightmare. Underground was immediately rejected, because it was considered detrimental to people’s health.

But Yoren had also told him St Mungo’s was given a host of magical protections. What could have set off so many car alarms and prompted muggle emergency sirens and also shaken St Mungo’s like it had?

“Gendry!” Gendry turned to find Clarysa Whitehill hurrying into the room. She nudged Gendry aside, crouched and took his mum by the shoulders, sitting her up and pulling her into her bed. He supposed it was alright to touch her then, since his mum hadn’t reacted much to being hauled up. “I need you to stay in this room, do you understand?”

“What was that big boom?” Gendry asked. But Whitehill was already snapping the door closed behind her, leaving the two of them alone again. With nothing else to do, Gendry bent down and picked up his fallen chocolate frog card collection. A small painting of forget-me-nots had come unhooked from the wall and fallen, so he took another minute to hang it, though he couldn’t quite get it to sit straight.

The two sat in silence as they listened to the activity in the corridor. Of hurried questions and answers that no one knew what was going on. Outside the window, Gendry watched as helicopters began to circle above the city. He tried craning around to see whether there was smoke anywhere, but there didn’t seem to be any. The helicopters didn’t seem to know where they were going, or what they were looking for, either. They made wide circles and hovered over this building or that.

After a bit, though, Gendry did see smoke.

Whatever the giant boom had been, it couldn’t have caused the smoke that Gendry saw. He had felt something seismically huge. The helicopters seemed to be flitting from one patch of smoke to another. They were mostly in the city center, but they were far to small, and far too scattered, for them to be directly related to the boom, as far as Gendry could tell.

Then again, there seemed to be a growing number of plumes of smoke. The sirens were increasing and now news helicopters were taking up orbit in any free airspace they could find.

After a while, Gendry realized he would not learn much more by staring at some smudges of smoke in the distance. He sat back down next to his mother’s bed.

It seemed as though she came to herself in some distant way, because she shook herself and furtively checked the corners of the room. Then, as delicately as ever, she produced a new Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper and tucked it into Gendry’s hand.

Gendry had barely pocketed it when the door swung open and banged against the wall. It was Yoren.

“Get up, we’re goin’.” Gendry scrambled to follow him and Yoren grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt. “Stick close, boy.”

Yoren seemed to be driven by urgency, but when they arrived to the lobby and Gendry tried to swerve towards the fireplace to floo back to school, Yoren yanked him back. He steered them towards the visitor’s entrance and before Gendry could protest, they were standing on the sidewalk.

“What’s happened?” Gendry tried again. “Why aren’t we going back the normal way? Where are we going?” But Yoren simply yanked him along.

“Hush up now,” he growled. “Just keep yer trap shut an’ follow me.”

Yoren tugged Gendry along street after street, taking odd turns this way and that. The only consistency in their path was that it took them further from the smoke and sirens.

“Has there been some sort of terror attack?” Gendry asked. The sirens could be heard in the distance but they were far enough away that he may as well try again.

“You could say that,” came the unhelpful reply.

“But it isn’t like they can use magic, can they? So it’s not like it affects the magical world, right?” Gendry continued. Whether it was flying planes into buildings or blowing up the Tube, it had all seemed perfectly muggle in nature.

“Not _those_ terrorists, boy!” Yoren snapped. “These ones are different and very much a part of our world. Now shut it.” A few more streets and a couple more turns. Finally, Yoren slowed them down and pulled them into a side street. He rolled up his sleeve.

“Hold on tight, boy.” Again, that lurching feeling of being squeezed from every possible angle. With a ‘ _crack!_ ’ they were now in some field. Gendry didn’t recognize it, but if he had to guess, they were somewhere in northern England.

“Don’t let go!” Yoren snapped. Gendry jumped and grabbed Yoren’s arm again. With another ‘ _crack!_ ’ Gendry and Yoren disapparated. Gendry looked around. This time, they had reappeared just outside the school gates. Yoren gripped a fistful of Gendry’s shirt again and hauled them through the gates. With a wave of Yoren’s wand, the gates sprang closed as soon as they stepped through.

To Gendry’s surprise, Yoren did not let go when they reached the entrance hall.

“I’m taking you to Gryffindor Tower, and you’re going to stay there until dinner.” Yoren explained shortly, sensing Gendry’s question.

Up they went, up moving staircases along echoing corridors. Up yet more stairs. When they reached the Pink Lady’s portrait, she seemed to be waiting for them.

“Crumpled crumpet,” Yoren commanded. She swung forward and Gendry was finally released as Yoren unceremoniously shoved him through.

Their walk through London’s streets had taken at least an hour, probably more. Even so, Gendry found it was still early afternoon. Most of the other students were lazing around because of the weekend. Several students who had taken up seats around the common room looked at Gendry questioningly upon his graceless entrance, so he took the stairs and went back to his dormitory. Hot Pie was working on a reading for class and Lommy was snoring in bed, having long abandoned his homework.

After a time, Gendry could not handle pretending to read any longer. He ventured down and was glad to see the Evening Prophet had been delivered to the school, and someone had left a copy in the common room. He picked it up and was about to head back up when he caught the headline. The headline was printed in a font size much larger than normal.

**‘ _THE MINISTRY BEHEADED –_ _TENSION AT ALL-TIME HIGH_ ’**

Any thought of making it up the stairs evaporated and Gendry’s feet brought him to the nearest alcove where he dropped down and started reading in earnest.

A gritty image played on the front page. A grand atrium with rubble, smoke and people running every which way. At their feet, splayed figures were draped in sheets, marking where people had fallen dead. Below, another image of witches and wizards cowering in doorways in crooked alleys that Gendry assumed was King’s Landing. Sparks and masked, robed figures blurred through, causing a storefront to shatter.

And then a still image. London. A couple of witches and a wizard were dashing across a street through cars frozen in mid-swerve. Behind them, a masked figure sent a bright streak of light after them. It seemed to be taken by a muggle camera, and Gendry stared at it.

The image appeared to show Whitehall. The sort of place where Gendry imagined Anguy would be hanging out in, what with his posh internship. There were confused muggles in their business suits caught in the still photograph, looking over their shoulders at the fleeing Westerosi folk.

To a muggle, Gendry realized it probably looked like a strange bit of live art – an odd scenario put on by some reality television series. It looked like the masked man was shooting a sparkler, or some form of firework at his robed friends.

Gendry couldn’t imagine what muggle authorities would think of it once the real destruction started, based on the plumes of smoke he had seen from St Mungo’s.

He read on:

> _Ministry of Magic, London – Earlier today, the Ministry of Magic suffered the greatest attack since Robert’s Rebellion,_ _the conflict that brought an end to the Targaryen reign and Westeros’ monarchy_ _thirteen years ago._
> 
> _The story is_ _still developing, but it is apparent that the attack began at approximately 10.45 this morning. Witness accounts vary, but several have stated that it started with an ambush on Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark, the Ministry Hand, in the ministry’s atrium._ _Details are unconfirmed, but i_ _t is_ _believed_ _that he was scheduled to meet with the Minister of Magic Robert Baratheon when the ambush began. The Minister of Magic reportedly arrived soon after the ambush began and has since been confirmed to be dead._
> 
> _Former, and_ _now_ _acting, Ministry Hand Stannis Baratheon, who filled the position after the late Hand Jon Arryn’s death, could not be reached for comment. It is believed he_ _i_ _s involved in taking back the ministry from the attackers. He is believed to be uninjured and was_ _reportedly_ _last seen dispatching Hit Wizards to the muggle Prime Minister to provide additional security,_ _and to begin sweeps of the ministry to further secure the premises._
> 
> _Thus far, tallies of the dead and injured are unclear, as many of the missing are reported to have fled or been driven into King’s Landing and the streets of muggle London._
> 
> _Among those confirmed dead are Minister of Magic Robert Baratheon, Ministry Hand Ned Stark, and Improper Use of Magic office Deputy Head Jon Colyns. Several others are confirmed dead and their identities are expected to be announced upon notification of next of kin._
> 
> _Reports of the missing are mounting, and Acting-Hand Stannis Baratheon has reportedly ordered that any who wish to report someone missing are to do so via owl so as not to interfere with the early investigation._
> 
> _The investigation reportedly includes inquiries into a large ‘boom’ that emanated from the ministry. Witness accounts claim it came from Level 2, which houses the Department of Magical Law Enforcement floor. Witness accounts claim that the ‘boom’ was not precisely an explosion but of a magical nature. Muggle news reports also indicate an ‘explosive blast’ was felt in muggle London at approximately the same time, and Acting-Hand Baratheon’s investigation is likely to include inquiries into whether the ‘explosive blast’ is related to or the same as the ‘boom’ on Level 2._
> 
> _Reports are mixed, but some witness accounts claim that ‘helicopters,’ a flying muggle contraption that permits muggle flight, were in association with muggle news outlets. If true, any ‘footage,’ visual evidence, of magic may have been captured and distributed amongst the non-magical population at large. The Prophet is attempting to follow up on reports that the Statute of Secrecy may have been breached so extensively as to reveal Westeros to the world at large._
> 
> _As of printing, no one has claimed responsibility for the attack. There are unconfirmed reports that suspected and known Wyverns were involved in the Ministry’s attack. If confirmed, the attack could signal a resurgence of broader seditious sentiment and loyalist activity._

Gendry was numb. He had _just seen_ Ned Stark this morning at St Mungo’s. They hadn’t bothered exchanging words or anything, but it had reinforced the sense that Mr. Stark was always there, lurking in the background. Somehow, he had started assuming that Mr. Stark always would be. No more. Gendry struggled to wrap his head around it.

The last time they’d spoken, Mr. Stark had assured him that he would tell Gendry’s father about him. Had he had that chance? Mr. Stark had told him to trust Yoren. But Yoren, trustworthy or not, was not the type to ask questions. Gendry had little hope Yoren would know what to do from here. His gruff attitude in dumping Gendry in the Gryffindor common room gave him the impression that Yoren was just as unprepared as him.

Professor Tyrell might know more than Yoren. But Gendry didn’t trust for a moment that he would tell Gendry a damn thing. He had been content to sit back and let Gendry wander around thinking his mother was dead, knowing all the time… Gendry willed himself to bury his anger and focus.

The only other person he could think of who might know anything besides Professor Tyrell was Stannis Baratheon.

Except Stannis Baratheon was a dim option in that he did not seem to have the inclination to tell Gendry anything, based on prior experience. And Gendry was pretty sure he wouldn’t have time, either.

Stannis Baratheon was, again it seemed, the Acting Hand. He was now heading a government that was reeling from something that had left several top officials dead, probably more. The Evening Prophet hadn’t even bothered trying to enumerate the missing because it was too early and people had gotten too scattered into muggle London.

Gendry leaned his head back against the chair. No, there was no way Stannis Baratheon would be telling Gendry of any details that may or may not help him, which he might or might not even know. Even if he did know enough to help Gendry, his visit to Steel Street had made it pretty clear that Baratheon was a man who didn’t divulge anything if he didn’t well and truly feel like it. Besides which, even if Mr. Baratheon did feel inclined to humor Gendry’s curiosity, recent events took obvious precedence.

Gendry stood and tossed the paper back onto the table. He could do nothing about any of this. As he wandered back up the stairs, he thought about Professor Lannister’s essay on the potion purposes and properties of lacewing flies that was due next week, his final essay due that term. He needed to finish it some time in the next few days, and Gendry idly wondered how he was going to make himself care enough to sit down and write the thing.

* * *

It turned out that Gendry’s distraction was entirely unnoticed by his peers. The entire school was in an uproar when the news had circulated around by the following morning.

When classes started for the week, the faculty did their best to keep everyone’s attention. It was a useless exercise. The professors themselves would whip their heads around if they thought they saw an owl out the window, possibly bearing news. Many of the students had parents who worked at the ministry and it was several days of high tension while everyone waited for more news.

The following days saw a flow of owls arriving; parents telling students that a parent or relative was safe, although that wasn’t the case for everyone. Faster than the owls, flew the gossip. The fighting had spread into King’s Landing – into the very streets of muggle London.

Every few years, some underage witch or wizard would let slip and a muggle or two would witness it; such events required a simple memory alteration and were considered to be an important, but containable affair. The rebellion which saw the overthrow of the Targaryens had provided the most recent events that had threatened Westeros’ secrecy. Still, the past weekend’s events made even the rebellion’s risk to the statute of secrecy seem inconsequential in comparison.

Their world had been revealed, or so the gossip said. If this was true, then the scale could not be understated. Gendry and the other muggleborn students knew better than the rest just how detrimental such exposure could be. The city of London was city with the most cameras and methods of mass surveillance than perhaps any other city in the world. It was certainly among the top.

Even then, the renowned Tywin Lannister himself had arrived and performed monumental feats of magic to conceal much of it behind sudden inclement weather. The planes that had been brought down had been explained by a variety of reasons, and the war had ended soon after. Westeros had remained secret.

Magical folk had not been unmasked in hundreds of years.

Gendry was glad he had remembered to send a note with Fabia to the Motts, telling them he was fine and that he would see them when the term ended. She dutifully returned with a scrawled note demanding whether he was sure they didn’t need to pick him up from school. Gendry had had to reply back telling them he would arrive at King’s Cross Station as planned.

Even if he had wanted them to come get him, he wasn’t even sure where ‘here’ was. It sort of looked like the Lake district, but they were far north enough to be well past the Lakelands, comfortably in Scotland. He wouldn’t even know where to send them.

The new Minister of Magic was announced soon after; Mace Tyrell. The photograph in the papers showed a portly man with fine clothes and a benevolent expression standing next to an exceedingly beautiful and regal woman. The blonde, regal woman was the new Hand of the Minister, Cersei Lannister. Gods, Joffrey was about to become positively insufferable.

It was unclear whether Stannis Baratheon had wanted to replace his brother as Minister of Magic. Some letters to the editor fearfully requested that Mr. Baratheon ‘change his mind’ and become the new Minister. Others said it was time to have new blood, since another Baratheon Minister would simply mean a new form of regency. Still others said Westeros owed it to Mr. Tyrell to ‘give him a chance’ at being minister.

Whatever Stannis Baratheon’s goals, it seemed he was content with melting into the background. None of the articles mentioned what his plans were. Instead, it seemed that he had managed to evaporate from the public eye entirely, leaving the new Minister Mace Tyrell and Hand Cersei Lannister to try and hold everything together.

Given the trend of the last year, Gendry half expected Cersei Lannister to show up at some point and ask Gendry the question that Mr. Arryn, Baratheon and Stark did. Two out of the three were dead. Given the paper’s level of uncertainty, there was no guarantee he still lived, or would for long. If Cersei Lannister knew what was good for her, she’d stay well away from him and questions about him.

Somehow, he and everyone sat through their final exams. Somehow, Gendry wrote an essay discussing the potion purposes and properties of lacewing flies. Somehow, Gendry managed to pack his trunk. He was somehow able to ignore the bits of glass from the jar he had broken months ago. Packing his trunk saw him simply stacking his school robes, now rather short, on top, followed by his books, cauldron, supplies and other clothes.

* * *

* * *

Time had never been something Arya thought much about, beyond her fervent wishes that there could be more hours in a day. More hours in a day meant more time spent flying, or running with Jon or Rickon in the Wolfswood.

It meant more time paging through books with Bran in the areas of the library Professor Luwin said they weren’t to read. Or play fighting with Bran while they both sat on top of Robb’s and Jon’s shoulders. Sometimes Rickon would sit on her shoulders, back when Rickon was a bit smaller. Rickon was still light enough that Sansa could carry him on her shoulders, though.

Last summer, their mother had insisted they only hold those fights in the pools of the godswood, ever since Arya had fallen from Robb’s shoulders. She had cracked a rib that day, and though Professor Mordane had healed it as though it had never happened, Mother had made them all promise to play fight in the water. Even so, that day had been fun. Mother had felt bad about yelling at all of them and so they had gone out into the Wolfswood to watch the direwolf that had made up a den nearby.

They had spent the rest of the day watching her dig her den and prepare to have pups in rapt silence. Even Rickon had managed to hold quiet and still. They had returned to Winterfell when the sun went down and Jory had tracked them down, telling them it was late and they needed to go home. They had all wished for more time.

More hours in the day meant more good things, as far as Arya had been concerned.

Now, crouched in the recesses behind the bins in a back alley somewhere on the King’s Landing side of Flea Bottom, Arya could barely maintain a grasp on chronological events. There was too much time. It was all too much.

Too many hours in a day.

The morning of that day had been normal, she had thought. Thinking back on it now, every facet of her memory of that morning held nothing but foreboding warnings, but it had all seemed so normal at the time. She had woken up early. Had snuck out to collect a cup of water and scoop some snow into it for extra impact. Had dumped it onto Jon to wake him up and demand he help her pick out the flowers for Bran’s bouquet. Robb had thrown his pillow at them to make them be quiet so he could go back to sleep.

They had gone through the glassed in greenhouses, picking the flowers they thought Bran might like based on no evidence at all. He had never shown any particular interest in flowers, so far as either of them could remember. They’d moved on to the godswood to see if there was anything to add to the bouquet. Sansa had found them and told Arya to come back – Mother had made good on her threats to have Father talk to the both of them.

They hadn’t even made it back to the Great Keep before they’d gone after each other again. Before she knew it, a vase was broken and she was in even deeper trouble than before. It hadn’t been fair! She was always in hot water with Mother, no matter what she did.

Now, though.

Now, it was weeks – months, maybe – later, and Arya wished more than anything for her mother to round that corner, shake her by the shoulders and scold her for failing to find a way home sooner. She would use her long, glossy wand to tap Arya’s arm to ease the ache. Arya wistfully imagined possible lectures her mother might give her. All the things she had done wrong, all the things she wouldn’t be allowed to do now, all the time she would be locked in Winterfell and not allowed to leave for a long, long time.

Arya shook herself. She needed to replay everything that had happened, needed to commit everything to memory, be able to tell everything that had happened. Soon, Rodrik, or maybe Jory, Cassel would come along and take her home.

Vayon Poole’s jurisdiction was Wintertown, but he was devoted to Father; surely he’d come if he could. Maybe Professor Mordane would be angry enough with her that she would come find Arya, if only to lecture her and give her detention. Everyone would have all sorts of questions, and she knew she wanted to be able to answer whatever they asked.

They had arrived at St Mungo’s, all those days ago. Bran’s room had been the same as ever. They settled the flowers on the side table. She and Sansa had settled in to talk to Bran, shooting uneasy looks at one another.

“ _Bran,_ ” Arya had said, “ _I told you I’d bring my broom to show you…_ ”

It hadn’t been long before Sansa had realized the music box she had brought had stayed in Father’s pocket.

“ _I’ll get it,_ ” Arya had jumped up. Sometimes Father would stop by the desk in the corridor and chat with Healer Whitehill, he might still be there. But he wasn’t. Arya and Sansa had had the briefest of standoffs before Arya had said she could get it from the ministry. Syrio had deftly volunteered to escort Arya to the ministry while Whitehill remained to keep an eye on Sansa and Bran.

Sansa had shot her a quizzical look, but Arya had just shrugged. Call it a peace offering.

Arya squeezed her eyes shut and tucked her head down to her knees. The shouts, some declaring hatred of the ministry, passed her by. She clutched her broom even tighter. Syrio would tell her to calm herself. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_ , he liked to say. _We use wands, though_ , she would sometimes reply. But he would just smile and repeat it. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_. She took a steadying breath.

The music box had been in her father’s outbox on his desk. Syrio had obligingly taken it and handed it to Arya, and she had tucked it into her coat pocket.

But upon turning to leave the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Syrio had used one hand to draw his wand while grabbing Arya’s shoulder with the other. She had found herself shoved behind him while he brought them both down into a crouch behind one of the desks on the main floor.

She hadn’t understood what Syrio was doing. Was it another of his impromptu exercises? But he wasn’t usually the sort to make a public spectacle of training. One of the reasons Father had hired him was because they shared the same philosophy of keeping their dueling skills private unless absolutely necessary. Arya had peered around from behind Syrio – it was only Jon Colyns, one of Father’s acquaintances from work, only…

“ _Stand aside,_ ” a voice had sneered. “ _You don’t have to die today._ ”

“ _Your mask doesn’t hide your voice. G_ _o home,_ _Meryn_ _Trant,_ ” Colyns had commanded right back. There were three others who also wore masks – no, four. Arya had seen Colyns raise his wand.

“ _Throwing in with Stark then, are you? Fine. He’s being cornered_ _right now_ _in the atrium_ _._ ”

There had been shouted incantations and papers blasted off of desktops. She squeezed her eyes shut again. It had happened so fast, yet watching him fall to the floor and lie still took so long in her mind’s eye.

The hand on her shoulder had gripped tighter. Arya had tried to only focus on Syrio’s hand as he silently wove them between the desks, constantly crouched. Past a fifth, and then a sixth. They had nearly made it out of the department.

“ _Protego!_ ” Syrio had shouted, leaping in front of her. A crackling ball of light deflected off and hit a wall, sizzling at the stone. Meryn Trant and two others stood across from them.

“ _Who’re you?_ ” One of them had demanded. “ _You’re not with the ministry._ ”

“ _I am but a humble teacher,_ ” Syrio had said. “ _And you will let me pass._ ”

“ _He might be able to let us into the Scroll Room,_ ” came a mutter.

“ _Nah,_ _listen to ‘im,_ _he’s a foreigner._ ”

“ _We’re on_ _a schedule here_ _, we need to kill ‘em and be done with it._ ” Meryn had broken through the deliberations. Syrio had let go of Arya’s shoulder only to shove her towards the door.

“ _Run, child._ _Go to your father._ ”

Yet Arya’s feet only managed to take her as far as the entrance to the department. Even now, she was transfixed at the memory of such a diminutive man facing down seven opponents.

With a yell, two of them had leapt forward prematurely. Syrio felled them, along with another. The remaining four had hung back, watching. He moved so fluidly and calmly, he made it look easy. Like the dances he was always trying to teach her.

“ _Bloody oafs,_ ” Trant had snarled. He readied his own wand.

“ _Be gone now, child,_ ” Syrio had commanded. He didn’t bother looking at her.

“ _Come with me,_ ” she had tried. She really had. These people had a better idea of who they faced, now. “ _Run._ ”

“ _The First Wand of Braavos does not run._ ” He still hadn’t looked at her. “ _What do we say_ _in_ _the face of death?_ ” He had asked rhetorically. Like so many times before.

“ _Not today,_ ” she had managed.

“ _Go._ ”

Finally, her feet had obliged and moved.

“ _Not today._ ” Not today. Not today.

She had clutched her broom tighter. She had drawn her wand, though she knew she couldn’t use it. Her parents had told them all ad nauseam that using magic beyond the Winterfell grounds could spell trouble with the Statute of Secrecy. Would an exception be made for her?

But exceptions for the children of important people were what led to the kind of corruption that had seen the Reynes and the Targaryens overthrown. She would make do until she found her father. He would get her and Sansa and they’d go home.

Arya had turned and fled while Syrio whirled and danced with Meryn Trant and the other masked men. Yells and clattering wands chased her. She had run. Swift and quiet.

There had been duels every which way. Arya ducked into offices and wormed her way around filing cabinets. There were moments when she had breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she had found an overlooked section, or perhaps the… whatever it was, was over? But then a spell would zing past her head and she would be sent hurtling down some corridor or backtracking the way she had come to avoid another fight.

She had had to sneak and run and freeze and scramble through corridors that blurred together and started to look the same. When she neared one that looked safe, screams would sound and ring out, and Arya would have to retreat and find some other way. When hurtling footsteps cornered her, she shrank into dark recesses to let them pass. She didn't think she had ever been quieter in her life.

No matter how many times Arya shut her eyes and replayed events, she could not figure out what route she had taken to make it back to the atrium. Nonetheless, she had made it. For a moment, she had been relieved. Robert Baratheon was there. In all his fat glory, he had just stunned several wizards who lay in crumpled heaps around him.

She had never been all that fond of the minister, if she were honest. He usually only ever remarked upon how she looked like her aunt, how she acted like her aunt. But in that moment, she felt only joy and admiration at the sight of him. He would take care of her, would help get her to Father and bring Sansa to them. Robert Baratheon had never been shy or bashful so he wouldn’t think twice about pulling strings to give them special treatment. They’d be back at Winterfell in no time. And then the two of them would go back and help Syrio.

They had locked eyes, and he had winked at her before jerking his head towards the exit. Right, he would probably prefer to pick her up from outside the visitor’s entrance. Dashing past though, Arya had found her feet weren’t hitting the floor like they should have done. It had been the minister. He had hooked her with his wand and sent her sailing towards the fountain, the only solid form of cover in the atrium.

Arya had surfaced, spluttering. She had quickly ducked low again, though. More of them had come, which explained his decision to dump her in the fountain. They had quickly engaged Robert in a furious duel.

“ _Is this all you have, you sorry bastards?_ ” Robert was taunting them. He wasn’t very fit, not at all, but Arya could see he had never forgotten his footwork. One spell stance would flow into the next and Robert had the sort of stamina for magic that Arya could only ever hope to have one day. The stories he and Father had told them were suddenly in full color.

Later, much later, Arya might reflect on bearing witness to one of the greatest wizards in all the land duel so many opponents at once.

It had mesmerized her. Everyone was so focused. An unearthly scream had sounded from the depths of the ministry, and everyone continued to fight. It had built and built and it clearly took some kind of toll on everyone. Robert swore and shook his head in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain, and several of the masked attackers did the same.

Everyone had flinched at the great ‘ _boom_ ’ that followed and shook everything. Arya slipped and accidentally swallowed some of the fountain water as it sloshed her around. Things were strange, but up until then, Arya had been certain Robert would prevail. How could he not?

But then Trant had shown up, with no sign of Syrio. And several more. And suddenly Arya’s sense of tense certainty had turned brittle. There was no way he could lose, right? He had defeated Rhaegar and Aerys Targaryen. But he had dueled them one on one. Gradually, the skirmishing group migrated away from the fountain.

“ _Trying to run away, traitor?_ ” A voice taunted. Robert Baratheon had let out a roar in response. Arya had taken a breath and ducked lower, submerging all but her eyes. She huddled between the statues, trying to focus on the tinny sounds echoing off of the walls, the high ceilings, the statues and through the water all around her.

If Robert had managed to drive the group just a bit farther into the atrium, she could make for the exit. She had her broom, she would have made it in no time.

Turning back, she had seen Robert Baratheon’s shield break down. Had seen his wand fly off from a disarming spell. Just like Jon Colyns, Robert Baratheon had seemingly taken an age to fall. But fall, he did.

Arya had been surprised by the quiet, the constant cacophony jarringly gone.The sound of the splashing fountain was suddenly deafening without it.

“Do you think they’ve figured things out, yet?” Arya flinched deeper behind the rubbish bins as footsteps drew near to her hiding place.

“What, at the ministry? Who gives a fuck?” Came a caustic response. “As far as I’m concerned, those cunts can do what they like. Targaryens or Baratheons, it’s all been the same for me as long as I’ve lived.”

“The statute might be broken, though. That’d mean changes of some kind, surely?”

“For poor sods like you and me? Are you daft? Folks like us’ve always lived by a different set of rules than the people who do the ruling. It don’t matter if they bother to wear a fancy crown or not.”

“We might be more free about using magic though! Think of it! We wouldn’t have to hide anymore, if muggles all knew about us anyway. They might already, the fighting broke out in the streets of London, I heard.”

“I’ve never pegged you for the sort to live in the clouds before. As if any of us could afford to learn anything advanced. Besides, if the muggles found out about us, it’d only be a matter of time before we end up tied to a stake.”

“How can you be so sure?” Arya hardly dared breathe while she listened, eager to hear as much as possible.

“ ‘Between stake and Red Keep, we’ll be burnt by end of week _._ ’ The sayin’ didn’t pop out of nowhere, you know.”

“I thought that was about those red fire god people in Essos.”

“You really are stupid, aren’t you…?” The footsteps faded, and Arya breathed a sigh of relief. Part of her wanted to follow them to keep listening. But the last time she had done that, she had gotten lost. It had taken her a whole day to find her way back to somewhat familiar territory.

‘Know your ground,’ Uncle Benjen would say. ‘The devil is in the details,’ Father would remind her. She settled back down and closed her eyes to review.

She had no concept for how much time had passed between the great boom and Robert Baratheon’s death, and when they had dragged Father in. They had dragged him and made him kneel near the fountain as crowds of ministry workers were corralled along the main floor and around the fountain.

Her father’s wand had plopped into the fountain with her. If she could just reach it… But unless it somehow rolled her way on its own, people in the assembled crowd would notice her if she were to stray to the edge of the fountain. Surrounded by the statues was where she had to stay.

One of the wyverns – for their cries of ‘ _For the Dragon Lord!_ ’ and ‘ _For the King!_ ’ could only mean they were wyverns – carried Ice, and Arya had nearly forgotten she needed to keep quiet and still. Another carried a giant, drooping scroll, with one edge dripping ink, looking as though it had been skewered through.

They had made eye contact. Even now, looking back, Arya wished she could draw out some sort of meaning. Some sort of message he might have tried to communicate. But he had simply looked at her. And she had looked back.

The leader, the one who lowered the mask. Arya didn’t think she had ever seen Father wear that expression before, so she wasn’t really sure what it meant. Certainly some surprise and confusion. But there was something else, and Arya had wanted very badly to inch around to see if she could view their face around their hood. But even she had realized that might not end well.

She had followed his eyes up. An owl, of all things, was on the statue above her, amidst all this chaos. It spread its wings and took off on mottled brown wings that beat up and down. Almost as smooth and swift as Ice’s journey. Arya had looked back to her father, waiting for him to make his escape.

Father had been transfixed by the owl. So transfixed was he that he was still watching it as Ice was brought down.

* * *

The boy must have seen Arya burst from the ministry atrium on her broomstick. He must have seen her fly from the entrance into King’s Landing, keeping low while several wyverns flew above and rained attacks onto ministry officials from above. But she had been busy, swerving to avoid a flying spell and then again to avoid some tall, balding man.

The boy had found her soon after Arya had fled the ministry. She had thought she would be safe if she just got out of the ministry into King’s Landing. She could disappear and lie low for a bit.

“ _There she is,_ ” Arya had whipped around, having tried to find a nearby street with less action.

“ _What do you want?_ ” Arya had retorted. She shook some water from her eyes. She was still dripping from the fountain.

“ _I want you, ministry brat_ ,” he’d said easily. “ _I hear w_ _ord’s gone ‘round promisin’ payment to round up an’ return any ministry officials_.”

“ _Do I look like an official to you?_ ” Arya had said hotly.

“ _You came from the ministry just now, I saw you. An’ now you’re comin’ with me_.”

“ _Stay away!_ ” Arya had cried out. But he had gripped her arm and wouldn’t let go. She had stowed her wand in her coat to fly from the ministry. To fly.

“ _Come here!_ ” The boy demanded. But they were already rising up as Arya climbed onto her Needle and the boy tried to anchor her to the ground. The boy was bigger than her. She thought he was kind of fat, actually. But even put together, the two of them probably only weighed as much as a small adult and the broom had no trouble at all in lifting them from the ground.

“ _Make us go down!_ ” The boy yelled, trickles of fear had started to creep into his voice.

“ _I said stay away!_ ” Arya yelled back. The Needle was still steadily rising, swaying this way and that while they struggled. They were still not too high up. If he would just let go now he’d only get a few bruises. His grip was slipping. They were higher. But then he reached his other hand up and made another grab for her. They were ever higher.

It was instinctive. Or at least she thought so.

As he gripped and kept hold of her arm with both his hands and clung tighter, she swung her foot forward and caught him in the chest.

They locked eyes. Without his added weight, her broom stuttered up several more feet before she took control and steadied. They were somehow still watching each other. His eyes were brown.

Down on the ground, Arya crept nearer. He was still alive, she was pretty sure. His eyes flicked to hers.

But then his pupils dilated, and Arya realized he wasn’t anymore.

* * *

Besides time, hunger was something else Arya had never spent much time thinking about. Arya had never known hunger before. Not like this. Real hunger. She had sometimes misjudged how much food she would need to pack when she went to the Wolfswood, but Robb, Jon and Sansa would always have extra for her and the boys. The three of them were responsible like that. Even when it was just her and Jon, Jon was always the type to pack extra for her, just in case.

The longest she could remember going without eating was probably no more than a day and a half, and that was only because she had dropped her lunch in a stream. She had recovered it, but it had gone soggy and was covered in dirt. She had been hungry at the time, but had still turned her nose up at it, preferring to go hungry. What she wouldn’t give for a soggy, dirty roll now.

Arya had opted to skip breakfast that fateful morning. She enjoyed porridge as much as any other breakfast food, but it just hadn’t seemed important. She needed to make him a bouquet; wanted Bran to be able to smell the outdoors. She was pretty sure they didn’t open the windows in his room. Even if they did, the city air was probably nothing compared to Winterfell’s. Healer Whitehill had said a person’s sense of smell was one of the most visceral ones. Surely if he smelled a bit of home, he’d wake up sooner.

But now she wanted the porridge.

She had stared at the box of Bertie Bott’s Beans that Rickon had given her for Bran. She had meant to leave it on Bran’s table, on the off-chance he woke up and wanted to eat any. Realistically, she and Sansa knew the box would probably sit there for a few days before being discarded by an orderly or a healer. Still, Arya had stared at it, vacillating over whether she should open it or not.

Maybe it was all some big mistake. Her father’s head, the blood, the bodies, the boy… it would all turn out to be some kind of prank. And the minister or Father would find her and laugh and say it was all a training exercise that got out of hand. They’d take her back to Sansa and Bran at St Mungo’s and then Arya would feel stupid for having eaten the beans meant for Bran.

If only her fantasy would come true, she knew exactly how it would play out. She’d deliver Sansa’s music box to her. Any good will she gained in offering to go would be rescinded when Sansa saw that it had gotten wet. She’d probably yell at Arya again, but it would be worth it. They might argue, and Sansa would probably tell her she was stupid for having eaten the Bran’s beans, never mind that he wasn’t awake to eat them.

Her vain delusions held her off from opening the box that night. She broke down the following night and ate them, cursing Rickon’s love for them. She wished his favorite candy were anything else.

At least four of the beans tasted like vomit, and another several were either boogers or old shoe leather. She was glad that the black pepper ones weren’t vile, and the freshly cut grass ones weren’t so bad. One of them had been buttered squash, though, and she had made sure to bite off only half so she could save the other half for last. She’d be damned before she went to sleep with bits of vomit-flavored beans coating her mouth.

The days were blending together. Arya had briefly tried her luck in muggle London. Perhaps she could lie low there and watch the visitor’s entrance telephone booth from afar. That way she could wave down Rodrik or Mother, or Professor Luwin or Mordane. Someone would come looking for her.

Syrio definitely would. As much as seeing Meryn Trant later spoke to his defeat, Arya felt a desperate kind of confidence that he had finagled his way out. He had beaten the odds somehow, she knew it, and he would come looking for her. He was just taking a long time because he was still new to Westeros and didn’t know his way around. Or else he was helping the ministry chase out the rest of the masked people.

Healer Whitehill would have looked after Sansa, and they would have told Mother where Arya and Syrio had gone.

So Arya had wrapped her Needle in old newspaper she had found and asked directions to London. She navigated the network of alleyways as casually as she could. There were signs that pointed every which way.

But the battle had spilled out onto the muggle streets. There were all sorts of muggle law enforcement about, carrying those firearms, although they didn’t look very much like any sort of weapon she’d ever seen.

One of them had called ‘ _Oi!_ ’ to her and asked her what she thought she was doing there. He had cast suspicious looks at her broomstick, still wrapped in the newspaper, but she supposed her youth caused him to give her some benefit of the doubt.

She had mumbled that she was curious and he had told her to get a move on home. In retrospect, she had been lucky that the ratty newspaper pages she’d used were filled with text and not any of the moving pictures.

Defeated, hungry and exhausted from figuring out how to even cross the streets with those zooming vehicles going every which way, Arya had retreated back to King’s Landing. Back she went, following the signs that the muggles seemed not to notice or see.

Arya had lucked into finding the bins outside of an inn and had been able to eat until she was ready to burst. That inn soon became her primary source of food while she waited for someone she knew to find her. Her mother would probably have a conniption when she found out Arya had resorted to eating food that had been thrown out. But if he were there, Uncle Benjen would probably praise her, saying it was smartest to take what she could find.

The inn’s bins weren’t the most reliable. Sometimes there would be a lot of food and other times there was very little, if any. Probably the people who ordered it would only come some nights or something. It was an odd collection of food from a variety of different dishes. But it was relatively plentiful some nights, and it was always fresh. Those nights, she wasn’t sure she had ever eaten a more satisfying meal.

She spent the days on the move. She replayed that day’s events to keep them fresh in her mind for when Rodrik asked her questions. She followed people and listened in as they chattered on about the goings on in Kings Landing.

Arya should have risked being seen and just gone over and grabbed her father’s wand. She could have tossed it to him. With his wand, he could have saved himself.

But Robert Baratheon hadn’t been able to save himself. He was said to be one of the greatest wizards in all the land, apart from Tywin Lannister or the Mad King himself. He had _beaten_ the Dragon Lord. And yet he had lost. And she’d watched her father be disarmed so easily.

No matter how many times she replayed it, or dreamed it, or thought about it, she couldn’t figure it out. Father wouldn’t have wanted her to risk herself by getting his wand.

But getting his wand to him might have saved him!

Or it might have gotten them both killed.

But she should have at least gotten it after. The masked people probably fished Father’s wand from the fountain, because she had just left it. How could she just _leave it_ like that?

But again, she had tried to make another reach for it. People were getting distracted after Father’s head had come to a stop at the base of the fountain. She had thought she could do it without being noticed, but then someone had shouted ‘ _Hey!_ ’ and she had known they meant it for her.

Their grizzled hair had become uncovered when their hood slipped back, though they had worn a mask. They had started towards her, and any hope for retrieving Father’s wand was gone. Arya had climbed onto Needle and made her escape.

She spent her nights huddled in doorways and between bins and behind stacked crates. She knew she was probably paranoid of sleeping in the same place twice. After all, if someone had truly noticed her and wanted to do her harm, they wouldn’t have a hard time doing it. She doubted her luck would continue to hold.

Speaking of luck, though, it turned out she wasn’t the only one roughing it on the streets. She was able to watch them and do as they did. King’s Landing was like no place she had ever been before. Granted, Wintertown was a small town compared to a major city like King’s Landing. And she knew visits to extended family in the States had shown her some of the wealthiest corners of society, hiding the poverty that she knew existed there. King’s Landing was no different.

“ _You should cut your hair,_ ” a woman with dark skin, short curly hair and kind eyes told her one day. “ _It’s cleaner that way, out in these streets._ _Besides_ ,” she leaned in closer. “ _It’ll help you blend in as a boy unless they look closer_.” She had come upon Arya as she was trying to disentangle her hair one day. It made sense, and Arya nodded.

Longer hair had been nice because it could be pulled away from her face. Jon was always having to shake his head to get his hair out of his eyes. But now that Arya’s was so dirty, it had become unmanageable.

“ _Maybe I will_.” But she didn’t have anything to cut it with, save her wand.

“ _Here, I can cut it for you_ ,” the woman had offered. “ _I cut mine all the time._ ” Arya had studied the woman for a moment. She had always felt she had a fair sense of people, but this wasn’t the north. She nodded though, and the woman drew a wand that had clearly seen many years of hard service. Arya closed her eyes, half expecting to be hexed.

Instead, she felt the weight of her hair steadily fall away. The woman had brought out a chipped mirror a few minutes later and shown Arya’s reflection. A long face under a short, fuzzy haircut looked back at her. Sansa would have been right in saying it made Arya look like a boy Rickon’s age. It was a utilitarian cut, and it was slightly uneven, but Arya immediately felt lighter and she thanked the woman profusely before a thought struck her.

“ _I…_ ” Arya had suddenly stammered. “ _I don’t have anything to pay you with_.” But the woman had simply given a laugh. She raised her wand and blasted small puffs of air at Arya’s clothes to rid her of the stray bits of hair clippings that clung to her shoulders.

“ _It’s not something that needs paying, girl_.” The woman had finished dusting hair off of Arya and refused to accept anything in return.

Syrio had told her to watch people. To observe, and listen. Only by truly seeing could Arya learn.

She was so tired. Tired of watching for every possible threat. Watching for some new boy who would try to turn her in. Tired of listening in on passing conversations, only to have it concern some obscure drama between people she did not know or care about. She was tired of hearing about how everyone was better off without the likes of Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark mucking things up for them. She had always thought the minister was loud and a bit stupid. But she didn’t want him dead.

She hated them. She was hiding from people like them. She was stinking and hungry and strung out from people like them and that boy.

Focus. Observe and listen.

Arya saw that most people in King’s Landing carried wands of substandard make and materials. She saw how traveling magic instructors sometimes carried substandard wands themselves. She was very glad to have hidden her wand away in her coat’s inner pocket. If anyone saw her with it, they would know its quality by sight alone. They would know she was either an impostor or a thief.

She had always known that the disparity between the rich and poor were great in Westeros, for Professors Luwin and Mordane had told them. She had been told of the policy that muggleborn children were to be given an extra leg up, with a quality wand and a quality education, to guard against the risk of creating an obscurus. A witch or wizard, raised among muggles, suppressing their abilities would result in an obscurus and would cause trouble for both Britain and Westeros alike.

But now Arya saw that many witches and wizards born in King’s Landing, and probably elsewhere as well, were too poor to afford a good wand or the education to use it. They would learn whatever spells the underpaid teachers happened to know. They would use whatever wands they happened to have, often passed down within families or households.

Arya was unsure exactly what levels of magic translated to formal school years, having been schooled privately all her life. Still, her parents had reminisced over Hogwarts so much over the years. Arya felt fairly confident to guess that the average level of magical literacy in King’s Landing was perhaps at a second or third year level, based on what she had seen and heard so far.

Though she wavered back and forth on the subject, Arya had to finally admit to herself that she didn’t hate them. She couldn’t even hate that boy. Not really. As hungry as she was; as scared and tired, she knew they were living on the edge. They had been living on a knife’s edge far longer than her. That boy had tried to get just a little further from it, and he had died for it. He had brown eyes.

After a while, the hubbub from the ministry attack died down some. Business returned to some semblance of usual, though there were constant wary looks to the sky or down side alleys. Arya had thoroughly lost track of time at this point. Even checking the dates on newspapers had stopped meaning much to her. Sansa was still missing. Was she dead? But that would be reported, surely. Besides, she herself was still missing.

The ministry was still tightly locked down and secured to all but the topmost officials. The new Minister of Magic was Mace Tyrell, a man who had sided with the Targaryens during the war. This detail had cemented Arya’s decision to stay put.

She felt validated in not using her wand to try to contact her family – the Trace could lead wyverns right to her long before her family ever got to her. Not that she knew of any spells that would let her contact them from this distance. _Sonorus_ was hardly a discreet spell, and it wouldn’t be heard beyond King’s Landing, let alone as far as the Riverlands or the Neck. She had no idea where to begin to cast a patronus charm. Could a patronus even make it that far? She didn’t know any other spell that could help her.

Tyrell might not be mad like the Dragon Lord, but the wyverns had been everywhere. Going back now might mean simply handing herself to them.

It was only after she had eaten her fill one evening that the events of the past however long began to sink in. Maybe her stomach had told her brain it had energy to spare. She found the alcove of a doorway that was shut up for the night and settled down.

Jon Colyns. Syrio. Mr. Baratheon. Father. That boy.

Father.

Tears pooled, but didn’t overflow. Her nose ran and she wiped it with a filthy sleeve. Arya waited.

And waited.

She had always assumed she would cry at a time like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a (shared) Gendry chapter!  
> You’ve all been so patient with this story, thank you. I meant for this story to focus on Gendry, and then Gendry and Arya. Yet the last several chapters have largely excluded Gendry. Chapter 15 marked 100k and Arya had only been in like three scenes. Guess I got distracted with developing the plot and it rabbit-holed.  
> For real, the two of them will actually meet one of these days.  
> Gendry scrounging chocolate frogs around Gryffindor Tower is a throwback to the old Harry Potter video games where Harry low-key robs the school of endless coins and chocolate frogs.  
> The ministry scene where Syrio grabs and navigates Arya, crouched, around cubicles and desks was inspired by the opening sequence of the Tenet film track ‘Rainy Night in Tallinn’ by Ludwig Göransson.  
> Speaking of: The scene in Chapter 13 where Ned realizes something is wrong in the atrium was written to the same track. The orchestral warm up over the first minute sours as Ned readies his wand in time for the drop at ~41secs, when the first wyvern attacks. From there, the track ratchets up and Ned blasts walls and fights through the ministry as he realizes how screwed he is but there's no going back.  
> In my head, Ned and Arya both run around the ministry to that song. It plays at full volume for Ned because he's in the thick of it throughout and Arya's scrambling to avoid it so it probably fades in and out for her.  
> Shout out to Huntress_Blacksmith08 for noticing Arya in Stannis’s chapter! I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to shoehorn her in somewhere, and that’s what I could manage. Well spotted.


End file.
